
(flight N!^_/l£i^ 

COPVRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



n 



THE POETS 



NINETEENTH CENTURY. 



SELECTED AND EDITED 

BY THE 

REV. ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT, 

INCXTMBENT OF BBAEWOOD. 



WITH ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ADDITIONS, 



ARRANGED BY 



EVERT A. DUYCKINCK, , , ;\\, 

EDITOR OF THE CYCLOPEDIA OF AMEEICAN LITEEATCEE. / t r^ r r. 



■ o- 



Cl'M 



ILLUSTRATED WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY - ONE ENGRAVINGS, 
DRAWN BY EMINENT ARTISTS. 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

18T2. 



<y\\\^ 



I 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 187 1, by 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 

In tlie Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PREFACE. 



Veuy suggestive of musical and pleasant thoughts is the Picture- 
gallery which this Preface opens ; and among them is the recollection 
of the manner in which these choice Word-paintings have been con- 
tributed by the Authors, or their representatives ; always with liberal 
promptness, and sometimes with expressions of personal good-Avill, to 
be gratefully treasured. Nor can I forget the generous enterprise of 
the Publishers, and the tasteful skill of the Brothers Dalziel, by whom 
the grace and the beauty of the pencil have been translated into the 
popular language of their own Art. 

The Volume embraces a period of about eighty-five years, for the 
Ih'st Canto of the Minstrel appeared in 1771 ; Beattie survived Cowper 
only three years ; while Percy, exchanging the friendship of Goldsmith 
for that of Scott, lived into the eleventh year of this century. The 
dates of these poets might seem to exclude them from our calendar ; 
but, in truth, the fancy of the present age was largely inspired and 
moulded by the past ; and the sentiment of the Minstrel, the natural- 
ness of the Task, and the simplicity of the Reliques, very strikingly 
reappear in Campbell, Wordsworth, and Scott. Nor has the embel- 
lished landscape of Darmn been without imitators ; while the foot- 
])rints of Rogers are easily traced in the trim garden-paths of Ilayley. 
One member of the classic band Avill be less familiar to general read- 
ers : I allude to Professor Crowe, Avhose descriptive poem is written 
with fine taste, and in choice numbers. The traveller, walking from 
Charmouth to Lyme, discovers Lewesdon Hill on the right hand, and 
forming one of the boundaries to a rich vale chequered by enclosures. 

Our Poetry owes many beauties to womanly genius, and in the fol- 
lowing pages some specimens of it will be found. The " Psyche" of 



ii PEEFACE. 

Mary Tiglie yet lives in the memory of Taste ; but Scotland furnishes 
a greater name : " If you wish to speak of a real poet," Scott said to 
Ballantyne, "Joanna Baillie is now the highest genius of our country." 
He numbered the description of Orra's madness with the sublimest 
scenes ever written, and compared the language to Shakspeare's. The 
Songs of Mrs. Hemans aiFord a lively contrast. It was her misfortune 
that she wrote to live, instead of living to write. Her compositions, 
therefore, are unequal ; but in her best pieces the eye is delighted by 
the glow and colour, and the ear is soothed by the varied cadence — 
often delicious, never harsh. The visionary tenderness and romance of 
Mrs. EadclifFe are breathed over the Address to Melancholy, and the 
Song of a Spirit. The quotation from Hannah More was chosen for 
the subject which it offered to the Artist, who has so happily embodied 
it in his genre sketches. The chaste elegance of Mrs. Barbauld is of a 
liigher order ; and very true poetic feeling and utterance ai-e conspicu- 
ous in the local pictures and the tender Sonnets of Charlotte Smith, 
which Miss Seward, clever in her spite, called " everlasting duns upon 
pity." 

One name in the tuneful Sisterhood has a home interest for me. 
It seems but yesterday that the shutters were shut in " Our Village," 
and Mary Russell INIitford went from among us. While turning over 
the leaves of this book, I have thouglit of the kindly welcome with 
which she would have greeted the illustration of her own " Eienzi," 
if I had taken it to her on one of these soft autumn days which she 
loved so much, and when her familiar lanes and dingles wear their 
sweetest colours. She had compared her old abode to a bird-cage that 
might be laid on a shelf, or litmg vipon a tree ; and her latest dwelling 
was hardly less odd, or dwarfish. But there, also, she had a cool re- 
treat out of doors, in the shade of her garden, and I see her sitting" 
in it now with table and book; constant to all her little heresies of 
taste ; reading the interminable Richardson every year, preferring 
wood -embers to the fairest moonbeams that ever lighted lovers, and 
panegyrising the nightingale's song, if accompanied by the moan of the 
pigeon. 

But the Brotlierhood has names, also, to be remembered by me 
yni\i very sincere regard. When I read the description of the dying 



PREFACE. iii 

Adiim by James Montgomery — a passage exquisite in conception, im- 
agery, and language — the author is before me as 1 saw him in my 
early youth. Lisle Bowles is another name to be marked with a white 
stone. A delightful spot was Bremhill — indeed, is still — with the 
quaint garden, and the swans, Snow-drop and Lily, sailing up to the 
parlour window to inquire after their dinner, and Peter the hawk, and 
the Vicar holding his watch to his ear, to make sure that he had not 
grown deaf since breakfast. Southey visited the Parsonage when the 
loveable old man was in his seventy-third year, and presented to the 
eye of his friend the most entertaining mixture that could be of un- 
tidiness, simplicity, benevolence, timidity, and good-nature ; but nobody 
smiled at his oddities more heartily "than the owner. The poetical 
merits of Bowles are great. His sonnets delighted Coleridge, and even 
Byron acknowledged the excellence of The JMissionary. 

Of all the elder poets of our time, my examples are less numerous 
than I had hoped to give. The lines of Wordsworth on Tintern Ab- 
bey are omitted from want of room ; and the most striking effort of 
Southey's imagination, the agony of Kailyal at her fatlier's flight, was 
ill adapted for pictorial use. The fame of Coleridge, however, will not 
suffer loss by resting on Genevieve, who has caught a new grace from 
the hand of Millais. Among these earlier poems, the reader will be 
attracted by the Legend of Kilmeny, which, for a moment, lifts the 
Shepherd to the side of Burns ; by the sunshiny morals of Praed, who 
reminds me of an Ariosto brought up in England ; and by the sea- 
views and the Dutch painting of Crabbe. 

If I could have turned my Preface into an illustrated catalogue, 
these poems would have furnished agreeable notes ; for to many some 
little story is attached ; as in the case of Keats, whose Ode to the 
Nightingale was written in the spring of 1819, when the fatal disease 
lay so heavy at his heart, that Coleridge, meeting him in a lane near 
Highgate, remarked — "There is death in that hand." The stanzas 
beginning <' The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill" become more affecting, 
when we are told that Scott composed them during the languor of 
sickness, and that they mark the very spot of their birth, now clothed 
by rich woodlands, the work of the Poet's hand. The Elm Tree 
might also claim a paragraph, to tell of the solemn Avenue which 



iv PREFACE. 

inspired it ; unci certainly " Umbrageous Ham" has not been mused in 
by a more genial visitor, since the frequent feet of Thomson broke the 
shadows. The noble verses — "Wine of Cyprus" — should recall the 
memory of the blind Scholar to whom they were addressed; and the 
compositions of Frances 15rown will lose a charm if the shadow on 
her eyes be forgotten. But of living Poets I may not speak. They 
are here to speak for themselves in tones of harmony, grandeur, and 
pathos, to which few ears, I suppose, will be deaf The list might 
have been enlarged, but a great Constituency can only be represented 
Ijy a few Members. 

R. A. WiLLMOTT. 

St. Catharine's, October 2. 1856. • 



AMERICAN PREFACE. 

The volume of "Poets of the Nineteenth Century," edited by the 
Rev. E. A. WiLLMOTT, a most loving and judicious critic of English 
literature, is hei-e preserved entire, with some important extensions. 
The selections have been increased from four hundred to six hundred 
and seventy-four pages, and a jDroportional addition has been made 
to the number of Engravings. The new material, in both instances, 
will be found indicated in the Table of Contents. 

The work of Mr. Willmott was confined to writers of his own 
country. In the present volume a liberal space has been given to 
American authors, illustrated by American artists. Additional illus- 
trations of English poems are furnished from the pencils of painters 
of eminent merit, making the work a very comjsrehensive represen- 
tation of the art of the day as applied to literature. 

New York, November, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 



A Star prefixed to the Titles indicates matter added in the present American Edition. 



PAGR 

JAMES BEATTIE. 

THE POET IN YOUTH 1 

MORNING LANDSCAPE 4 

CALM AND STORM 5 

A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS 6 

RETIREMENT 8 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

YARDLEY OAK 11 

LINES TO MY MOTHEr's PICTURE 17 

WILLIAM HAYLEY. 

THE VISION OF SERENA 21 

J 

JAMES HURDIS. 

RURAL SOUNDS 24 

CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

THE SWALLOW 26 

SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING 29 

SONNET 30 

SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT- 
INGALE lb. 

FROM "bEACHY' head" 31 

AXXA SEWARD. " 

.SONG 35 

ERASMUS DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES 36 

THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS 38 

TASTE 39 

WILLIAM CROWE. 

LEWESDON HILL 41 



PAGE 

THOMAS RERCY. 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY 47 

GENTLE RIVER 51 

GEORGE CRABBE. 

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT 55 

MARINE VIEWS... 57 

A GOOD VILLAGER 62 

THE PARTING LOOK 65 

MARY TIGHE. 

PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD 66 

ANN RADCLIFFE. 

TO MELANCHOLY 69 

SONG OF A SPIRIT 71 

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

A SUMMER evening's MEDITATION 73 

A PETITION 77 

HANNAH MORE. 

FLORID AND HIS FRIEND 78 

W. LISLE BOWLES. 

RETURN TO OXFORD 88 

ON THE RHINE lb. 

THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY 90 

THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN 92 

LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH 97 

THE BURIAL PLACE 98 

SUNRISE 100 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

SAMUEL ROGERS. 

THE OLD HOUSE 102 

MOTUER AND CUILD 104 

AMELIA OPIE. 

THE ORPHAN BOy's TALE 106 

WILLIAM SPENCER. 

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON 108 

* WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS 109 

LORD BYRON. 

TOE PRISONER OF CIULLON Ill 

THE DREAM 123 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 131 

TO NIGHT 133 

SPRING 134 

JOHN KEATS. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 135 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

LOVE 139 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION 143 

A CLOUD PICTURE 144 

DION 146 

INCIDENT AT BRUGES 150 

A JEWISH FAMILY 152 

*A PORTRAIT 154 

*LUcy 155 

* SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 

BRIDGE 156 

CHARLES LAMB. 

HESTER. A REMEMBRANCE 157 

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM 158 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

THE HERB ROSEMARY 159 

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT 160 



PAGE 

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. • 

* AMERICA TO GREAT BlUTAIN 162 

* ROSALIE 163 

•'* A FRAGMENT 164 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

*THE husband's AND WIFe's GRAVE 165 

*A CLUMP OF DAISIES 169 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

* THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET I7l 

WALTER SCOTT. 

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW IHLL.^.... 1*72 

MARMION DYING : 174 

THE BURNING OF ROKEBY 176 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

THE soldier's DREAM 180 

the exile of erin 181 

drinking song of munich 183 

lochiel's warning 184 

uohenlinden 187 

battle of the baltic 189 

ye mariners of england 191 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

* STANZAS 194 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM 195 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 

THE PHRENZY OF ORRA 198 

. JAMES GRAHAME. 

THE SABBATH 202 

SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED 204 

A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER 206 

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

LAMBS AT PLAY 210 

THE farmer's BOY IN THE FIELDS 212 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

EBEXEZER ELLIOTT. 

* BURXS 215 

*A poet's epitaph 216 

■ SPRING 217 

THOMAS MOORE. 

THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR IIIXDA 218 

NOL'RMAHAL 220 

CHARLES WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 221 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

THE POETS BRIDAL-DAY SONG 223 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 225 

SIDNEY WALKER. 

TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR 227 

JAMES HOGG. 

THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY.. 229 

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 

* THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 236 

* THE BROTHERS 237 

FELICIA HEMANS. 

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO 238 

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 242 

THE RETURN 2^3 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

RIEN'ZI AND HIS DAUGHTER 245 

SONG 248 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

* THE INDIAN SUMMER 249 

* THE HOLY DEAD 251 

* TALK WITH THE SEA 252 

REGINALD HEBER. 

THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 254 

* LIXES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER 258 

* LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH 260 



PAGH 

ROBERT SOUTIIEY. 

THE VISIT OF MADOC. A SCENE AMONG 

THE WELSH HILLS 261 

THE WORLD OF WOE 263 

TUALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH 265 

SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN 270 

CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). 

* SUNDAY EVENING 27l 

JOHN LEYDEN. 

TO THE EVENING STAR 275 

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN 277 

JOHN CLARE. 

* MARY LEE 279 

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 

* SALMON RIVER 282 

* THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER 284 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 

* A HEALTH 286 

* A PICTURE-SOXG 287 

CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

* A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 288 

BERNARD BARTON. 

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE 291 

WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 

RHINEFIELD, A LODGE IN THE NEW FOR- 
EST 293 

SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY 294 

ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO 

BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT il>. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

* SONG OF Marion's men 295 

* GREr.X RIVER 298 

* THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 301 

* THE LAND OF DREAMS 302 

* THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES 304 



CONTENTS. 



* THE GLADNESS OF NATURE 307 

* WILLIAM TELL 308 

* AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY 309 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

* BRONX 311 

* SONNET ■ 313 

FITZ GREENE H ALLEGE. 

* RED JACKET 314 

* CONNECTICUT 318 

* ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 82] 



HORAGE SMITH. 

* THE FIRST OF MARCH 



323 



GEORGE DARLEY. 

* HARVEST HOME 324 

WINTHROP MACK WORTH PRAED. 

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 325 

THE VICAR 32'7 

A CHARADE 330 

THOMAS HOOD. 

THE ELM TREE. A DREAM IN THE "WOODS 332 

THOMAS PRINGLE. 

AFAR IN THE DESERT 347 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

THE WATER - NYMPH APPEARING TO THE 

SHEPHERD 351 

RODERIGO AND JULIAN 353 

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 

* NIGHT AND DEATH 355 

JOHN KEBLE. 

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD 356 

children's THANKFULNESS 358 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 

the HEBREW WEDDING 361 

THE COMING OF THE JUDGE 363 

LEIGH HUNT. 

AN ITALIAN GARDEN 365 

ABOU BEN ADHEM 368 

GEORGE CROLY. 

THE ALHAMBRA 369 

FLORA 371 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

*THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 372 

JOHN MOULTRIE. 

the three sons 375 

"forget thee?" 378 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

the SPANISH ARMADA 379 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

* JEANIE MORRISON 382 

* THEY come! the MERRY SUMMER MONTHS 385 
*A SOLEMN CONCEIT 386 

HENRY TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT 389 

ERNESTO 396 

DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 

* CASA WAPPY 399 

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 

THE SPILT PEARLS 404 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

* THE HUMBLE-BEE'. 406 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMANN. 

* SPARKLING AND BRIGHT 408 



CONTENTS. 



GEOEGE P. MORRIS. 



HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 



* WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE 401) * WEST POINT 482 

POETRY 410 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

THE LAST LEAF 485 

ON LENDING A PL'NCH-DOWL 488 



RALPH HOYT. 

* SNOW A WINTER SKETCU 411 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 

* BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN 416 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 

* UNSEEN SPIRITS 419 

* LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY 420 



HENRY ALFORD. 

HYMN TO THE SEA 



423 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

* THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 426 

* THE END OF THE PLAY 429 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

THE MAY QUEEN 432 

* MORTE d'arthur 439 

* EDWARD GRAY 449 

* THE GOOSE 451 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 454 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 

* FLORENCE VANCE 456 

* YOUNG ROSALIE LEE 457 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

* MAUD MULLER 459 

* GONE 463 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

* THE RAVEN 



466 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

* HYMN TO THE NIGHT 471 

* RESIGNATION 473 

* KING WITLAF's DRINKING-HORN 476 



ALFRED B. STREET. 

''^' A FOREST NOOK 491 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

TWO IN THE C.\MPAGNA 494 

EVELYN HOPE 497 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

WINE OF CYPRUS 499 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

THE THREE FISHERS 505 

THE SANDS OF DEE 506 

* THE DAY OF THE LORD 507 

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN. 

* THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE 508 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE 514 

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 

EVA 517 

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 

THE HISTORY OF A LIFE 526 

WITHIN AND WITHOUT 527 



EDWIN ATHERSTONE. 

BATTLE SCENES'. 



530 



MARY IIOWITT. 

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL 533 



MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



EXCELSIOR 479 * TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 



547 



CONTENTS. 



W. C. BENNETT. 

* baby's shoks 

* Lilian's epitaph 



550 
551 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 



SCENE — THE BANKS OF A KIVEK 552 

PICTURES 554 

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 

A SUMMER NIGHT. 557 

WORDS 558 

PORTRAIT OF A LADY , 559 

SHEKIDAN KNOWLES. 

THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF 560 



GEEALD MASSEY. 

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE 564 

THAT JIERRY, IMERRV MAY ......... 



babe christabel . 

WILLIAjM ALLINGHA]M. 
autumnal sonnet 



566 
568 



570 



CHARLES MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW 571 

FRxVNCES BROWN. 

THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION 574 

ALL THINGS NEW 576 



THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 



* SORRENTO 

* SAINT PERAY'. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



* TIIE SINGING LEAVES 

* LONGING 

* AUF WIEDERSEHEN ! 

* PALINODE 



MARIA LOWELL. 

THE ALPINE SHEEP 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 



579 
581 



584 
588 
589 
590 



592 



•' THE WAY-SIDE SPRING. 
* THE CLOSING SCENE . . 



594 

596 



WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 

* NOTHING TO WEAR 599 

j BAYARD TAYLOR. 

I 

; * DAUGHTER OF EGYPT 610 

* ON THE SEA iJj^ 

* BEDOUIN SONG 611 

W. D. HOWELLS. 

* SAINT CHRISTOPHER 613 

HENRY M. ALDEN. 

* THE ANCIENT " LADY OF SORROW" 615 

R. H. STODDARD. 

* THE SEA 618 

* ON THE PIER ih. 

* THE SKY IS THICK UPON THE SEA 619 

JULIA C. R. DORR. 

* THE drummer-boy's FUNERAL 620 

DANTE G. ROSSETTI. 

* THE SEA-LIMITS 623 

CHRISTINA GABRIELLA ROSSETTL 

* A BIRTHDAY 624 

* SING NO SAD SONGS FOR ME ib. 

CHARLES A, SWINBURNE. 

* BEFORE PARTING €26 

E. C. STEDMAN, 

* THE DOOR-STEP 628 

* DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW 630 

CHARLES G. HALPINE (MILES 
O'REILLY). 

* RESIGNED 631 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

* DAT IS DY'ING 633 

* SPRING 634 

* IT WAS IN THE PRIME 635 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 

* A DOG'S-DAY ENDED 636 



CONTENTS. 



"LUCY LARCOM. 



S. S. CONANT. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES 639 , * A DREAM OF FAIRIES 



ALICE CAEY. 

" THOU THAT DRAWEST ASIDE THE CUR- 
TAIN" 641 

"COME OUT TO THE SIDE OF THE SEA" 642 

PHCEBE GARY. 

DUEjVMS and REALITIES 643 



JOHN HAY. 

my castle in spain 645 

wo.man's lox^e 647 



BRET HARTE. 



* CICELV. 



649 



GEORGE H. BOKER. 

* DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 

* SONNET 



652 



659 
660 



WALT WHITMAN. 

* PROUD MUSIC OF THE STOR.M 6G1 



ANNIE C. KETCHUM. 

DOLORES 608 



MARK LEMON. 

* OLD TIME AND 1 673 



LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS. 



.4 Star prefixed to the Titles indicates new Illustrations in the present American EditiorK 



SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DHAWN EV PAGE 

The Poet in Youtu." Beattic B.Foster 1 

A Valley among the IIiLLf- '. Ditto W. Harvey 6 

Retirement Ditto Ditto 8 

Yardley Oak Cowpcr Ditto 11 

Lines to my Mother's Pictlue Ditto ./. Gilbert 17 

The Vision of Serena Hayley... A. Hughes. 21 

Rural Sounds Hurdis H. Weir ' 2-1 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith. B. Foster 2(i 

From " Beach y Head" Ditto Ditto 31 

The Shepherd's Home Ditto Ditto 33 

Taste Danoin T. Dalziel 39 

Lewesdon Hill Crowe B. Foster 41 

The Thirsty Lamb Ditto Ditto 44 

The Friar of Orders Gkay Percy .../. Tenniel 4*7 

Gentle River Ditto Ditto 53 

A Gipsy Encampment Crabbe B. Foster 55 

Marine Views: — Calm Ditto E. Duncan 59 

Storm Ditto Ditto 61 

A Good Villager Ditto J. R. Clayton 62 

To Melancholy Ann Radcliffc.B. Foster 69 

A Summer Evening's Meditation A. L. Barbauld .Ditto 73 

Florio and his Friend:— The Loungi; Hannah More... J. Godwin 78 

The Opera Ditto Ditto 86 

On the Rhine Bowlex ./. D. Harding 89 

The Home of the Old Indian Ditto W. Harvey 95 

Landing at Tynemouth .....Ditto T. Dalziel 97 

Sunrise Ditto TI"; Harvey 101 

The Old House Rogers G. Dodgsoi: 103 

The Orphan Boy's Tale Amelia pie ....T. Dalziel 107 

The Prlsoner ok Cuillon Byron F. M. Brown 113 



:dv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT. ACTHOR. DRAWN BY PAGE 

The Dueam Ditto J. E. Millais, A.R.A .... 125 

Written in Dejection near Kaples Shelley W. L. Leitch 131 

OiJE TO A NiGiiTiNOALE Keats B. Foster 135 

The Stream Ditto Ditto 138 

Lmve Coleridge J. E. Millais, A.R.A 139 

The Glory of Imagination Wordsworth B.Foster 143 

Ini'ihent at Bri'ges Ditto J. Ji. Clayton 151 

* The Husband's and Wife's Grave Dana J. H. Hill 165 

The Sin upon the Weirdlaw Hill Scott B.Foster 172 

Maumiox — Dying Ditto /. Tenniel 174 

The BiRNiNG of Rokeby Ditto Ditto 176 

The Exile of Erin Campbell... T. Dalziel 182 

IIoHEXLiNDEN Ditto ,/ Gilbert 188 

Ye Mariners of England Ditto E.Duncan 192 

The Sabuath Grahame B. Foster 203 

A Sabbath Walk in Summer Ditto Ditto 207 

Lambs at Play Blomnficld W. Harvey 211 

The Farmer's Boy in the Fields Ditto B. Foster 213 

The Lament of the Peri for IIinda Moore W. Harvey 218 

The Burial of Sir John Moore .....Wolfe J. Gilbert 222 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea A. CHnningham.E. Duncan 225 

To a Girl in her Thirteenth Year Sidney Walker. .J. R. Clayton 228 

The Rapture of Kilmeny: — 

The Land of Thought Hogg W. Harvey 232 

The Lanely Glen Bitto Ditto 234 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro Felicia Hemans.J. Gilbert 238 

RiENZi AND nis Daughter M. R. Mitford... J. Tenniel 246 

*The Indun Summer Sigonrney /. H.Hill 249 

The Visit of Madoc Soiithey /. Gilbert 261 

Thalaba in the Tent of Moath Ditto W.Harvey 265 

To the Evening Star Leydeyi G. Dodgson .....'.' 275 

* AVisit from St. Nicholas C. C.Moore F. 0. C. Darlei; 288 

To the Evening Primrose B. Barton Ditto ".. 291 

RinNEFiELD,— a Lodge in the New Fotles^t. Sotheby W. Harvey 293 

*SoNG OF Marion's Men Bryant F 0. C DaH^Z". 995 

* Green River j)uto J. H. Hill 993 

*The Hunter of the Prairies Ditto F 0. C Darley 304 

*The Gladness of Nature Ditto J.H.Hill 307 

*^''"^'' Drake /. W. Casilcar 311 

»Red Jacket Halleck F 0. C Darley 314 

* Connecticut Ditto Ditto 3I8 

'^"^ ^'^•^'^'^ Praed J.Gilbert 327 

The Elm Tree:-Tue Avenue T.Hood G. Dodgson 333 

The Woodman Ditto Ditto 339 



LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS. xv 

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DRAWN BV PAGE 

Afar in the Desert Pringle W. Harvey 347 

The Water-Nymph appearing to the Shep- 
herd Landor F. R. Pickersgill, A.R.A. 351 

The Lilies of the Field Keble B. Foster 356 

The Hebrew Wedding MUmau E. 11. Corbould 362 

An Italian Garden Leigh Hunt G. Dodgson 366 

The Alhambra Croly W. Harvey 369 

The Three Sons Moultrie /. Gilbert 375 

The Spanish Armada Macaulay Ditto 379 

Artevelde in Ghent Taylor J. R. Clayton 392 

The Spilt Pearls Trench W. Harvey 404 

* Snow— a Winter Sketch Hoyt F. 0. C. Darlcy 411 

* Blessings on Children Simms Ditto 416 

Hymn to the Sea Alford E. Duncan 424 

The May Queen Tennyson T. Dalziel 432 

New-tear's Eve Ditto Ditto 434 

Conclusion Ditto Ditto 436 

Tailpiece Ditto Ditto 438 

* MoRTE d'Arthur: — 

* ExcALiBUR Ditto D. Maclise 439 

* Death Scene Ditto Ditto 44*7 

*** Edward Gray Ditto -/. E. Ilillais 449 

* The Goose Ditto W. Mulready 451 

* Break, Break, Break Ditto G. Stanjield 454 

* Maud Muller WMtticr.... F. 0. C. Darley 459 

*The Raven Poe Ditto 466 

* Hymn to the Night Longfellow /. Gilbert 471 

* Resignation Ditto Ditto 473 

* King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn : — 

*The Carouse Ditto Ditto 476 

* Monk Reading Ditto Ditto 477 

* Excelsior Ditto F. 0. C. Darley 479 

* West Point Tackerman /. W. Casilear 482 

* The Last Leaf Holmes F. 0. C. Darley 485 

* On lending a Punch-Bowl Ditto Ditto 488 

* A Forest Nook Street /. H. Hill 491 

Two in the Campagna R. Browning — E. A. Goodall 495 

Wine of Cyprus E. B. Browning. J. R. Clayton 499 

The Three Fishers Kingsley T. Dalziel 505 

The Sack of Baltimore Davis James Godwin 514 

Eva: — The Maiden's Home Bulwer Lytton . .J. Gilbert 517 

The Stranger Suitor Ditto T. Dalziel 520 

The Return Ditto Ditto 523 

The History of a Life Procter D. Edward.i 526 



xvi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DKAWN BY FAGB 

Within and Witiioit Ditto James Godicin 528 

n.MTLE StENES Aikerstoiie E. U. Corbould 530 

Urii.\i:i) Birnell: — 

YoiNG BfRNELL ANO Alice ilarij lloioift . ...Jamcs Godwin 534 

The Marriage ok Alice Ditto Ditto 540 

BuiiNELL AND AlICE IN THE TeMI'LE 

Gardens Ditto Ditto 546 

The Banks of a River A. Smith B. Foster 553 

Pictures Ditto Ditto 555 

A Summer Kight Bailey Ditto 557 

The Appeal and the Reproof Knowhs /. Tennicl 560 

OiR Wee White Rose Massey /. R. Clayton 565 

That Merry, Merry May Ditto .D. Edwards 567 

Autumnal Sonnet Allinyham G. Dodgson 570 

Youth and Sorrow Mackay E. H. Corloidd 573 

The Hope of the Resurrection Brown Ditto 575 

*TnE Singing Leaves J. Ji. Lowell / H. Hdl 584 

* The Wayside Spring Read Ditto 596 

* Nothing to Wear: — 

* The Lady W. A. Butler... A. Hoppin ^nO 

*TiiE Beggau Ditto Ditto GOi) 

•■' St. CiiKisTOPHEK W. D. Howells G 1 3 

* TiiE Dkummeu-Boy's Funeral T. C. R. Dorr . . Sol. Eytinge, Jr G20 

* Resigned C. G. Halpine. .Ditto 631 

* A Dog's Day Ended : — 

* Idle and Dreaming E. L. Beers Ditto G3G 

* The Graves Ditto Ditto G38 

* A Dreaji of Fairies: — 

* Helen Sitting on the Grass S. S. Conant . . . Ditto Gr)2 

* A Thousand Merry Sprites Ditto Ditto 657 

■ Dolores : — 

* Fishers in their Boats A. C. Ketckum.. Charles Parsons 668 

'•■ The Str;Vnded Ship Ditto Ditto 672 




BEATTIE. 



THE POET IN YOUTH. 



Lo ! where the stripling, ^vrapt In wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine, 

1 



THE POET IN YOUTH. 

And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves, 
From clitF to cliti" the foaming torrents shine ; 
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
Ah! no; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey. 
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn, 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey, 
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for awhile ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn. 
And villager abroad at early toil. 
But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean smile. 

And oft the craggj' cliff he lov'd to climb, 
When all in mist the world below was lost. 
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, 
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd 
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round. 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 

In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight. 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
In darkness and in storm he found delight ; 
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. 
E'en sad vicissitude amus'd his soul ; 
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear so sweet he wish'd not to control. 



BEATTIE. 

See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
The visionary boy from slielter Hy ; 
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. 
And, lo! in the dark East, expanded high. 
The rainbow brightens to the setting sun ! 
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh ; 
How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 
'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run. 

When the long-sounding curfew from afar 
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale. 
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, 
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. 
There wovUd he dream of graves and corses pale. 
And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, 
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail. 
Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song, 
Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. 

Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, 
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep. 
To haunted streams, remote from man, he hied, . 
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
A vision brought to his entranced sight. 
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright, 
With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. 

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
And forth an host of little Avarriors march, 
Graspmg the diamond lance and targe of gold. 
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. 
And green their helms, and green their silk attire ; 
And here and there, right venerably old, 

3 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 

The long-rob' cl minstrels wake the warbling wire, 
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. 

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; 
The little warriors dolF the targe and spear, 
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. 
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; 
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze ; 
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance 
Kapid along : with many-colour'd rays 
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 



But who the melodies of morn can tell? 
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepf old's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and Avide, 
The clamorous horn along the cliff's above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! 
Dovni the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ; 
4 



BEATTIE. 



Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; 

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 

And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 



CALM AND STORM. 



Oft when the Avinter storm had ceas'd to rave, 
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view 
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave 
High tOAvering, sail along th' horizon blue : 
WTiere, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new. 
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries. 
More wildly great than ever pencil drew — 
Eocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise 

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, 
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. 
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array 
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day ; 
E'en then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, 
Along the trembling wilderness to stray. 
What time the lightning's fierce career began, 
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattlin" thunder ran- 




A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS, 



Thither he hied, enamour' d of the scene; 
For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell, 
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, 
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. 
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, 
AVliose long, long groves eternal murmur made : 
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, 
Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd 
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. 

6 



BEATTIE. 

Along this narrow valley you miglit see 
The wild deer sporting on the level ground, 
And, here and there, a solitary tree. 
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd. 
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound 
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; 
And from the summit of that craggy mound 
The piercing eagle oft was heard to cry, 
Or, on resounduig Avings, to shoot athwart the sky. 

One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, 
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, 
And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream. 
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : 
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam. 
Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ; 
When slowly on his ear these moAing accents stole: 

" Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, 
And woo the weary to profound repose ! 
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest. 
And whisper comfort to the man of woes'? 
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes. 
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
O Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes, 
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 

Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs." 




RETIREMENT. 



When in the crimson cloud of even, 

The lingering light decays, 
And Plesper on the front of heaven 

His glittering gem displays ; 
Deep in the silent vale, unseen. 

Beside a lulling stream, 
A pensive youth, of placid mien, 

Indulg'd this tender theme : 

"Ye cliifs, in hoary grandeur pil'd, 

High o'er the glimmering dale ; 
Ye woods, along whose windings wild 

Murmurs the solemn gale : 
Where Melancholy strays forlorn. 

And Woe retires to weep. 
What time the wan moon's yellow horn 

Gleams on the western deep : 



BEATTIE. 

" To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 
Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, 

To your retreats I fly. 
Deep in your most sequester'd bower 

Let me at last recline. 
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, 

Leans on her ivied shrine. 



"How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair? 

Thy heavenly smile how win ? 
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, 

And stills the storm within? 
O, wilt thou to thy favourite grove 

Thine ardent votary bring, 
And bless his hours, and bid them move 

Serene, on silent Avins? 



" Oft let Remembrance sooth his mind 

With dreams of former days, 
When, in the lap of Peace reclm'd, 

He fram'd his infant lays ; 
Wlien Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care 

Nor cold Distrust alarm' d. 
Nor Envy with malignant glare 

His simple youth had harm'd. 

"'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee 
His early vows were paid. 
From heart sincere, and warm, and free, 

Devoted to the shade. 
Ah ! why did Fate his steps decoy 

In stormy paths to roam. 
Remote from all congenial joy? — 
O, take the Wanderer home! 
9 



RETIREMENT. 

"Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, 

Thy charms my only theme; 
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 

Waves o'er the gloomy stream; — 
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray 

Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
And dowTi the lone vale sails away 

To more profound repose. 

"O, while to thee the woodland pours 

Its wildly warbling song. 
And balmy, from the bank of flowers, 

The zephyr breathes along ; 
Let no rude sound invade from far, 

No vagrant foot be nigh, 
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 

Flash on the startled eye. 

"But if some pUgrim through the glade 

Thy hallow'd bowers exi^lore, 
O guard from harm his hoary head, 

And listen to his lore ; 
For he of joys divine shall tell, • 

That wean from earthly woe. 
And triumph o'er the mighty spell 

That chains his heart below. 

"For me, no more the path invites 
Ambition loves to tread ; 
No more I climb those toilsome heights, 

By guileful Hope misled : 
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more 

To Mirth's enlivening strain ; 
For present pleasure soon is o'er, 
And all the past is vain." 
10 




COWPEE. 

YARDLEY OAK. 

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
11 



YARDLEY OAK. 

(Since which I number threescore winters past,) 
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse. 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpuriiied by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once — a cup and ball, 
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay. 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin' d 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, 
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ' d too oft amiss. 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature ; and in the loamy clod, 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct. 
Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Tvdns, 

12 



COWPER. 

Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact ; 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. 

Vf[\o liv'd, when thou wast such? O could' st thou speak 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth, 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
Recovering, and misstated setting right, — 
Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again! 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; 
And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks 
That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 

While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant-bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root 
Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which Time is charged t' inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

13 



YARDLEY OAK. 

What exhibitions various hath the Avorld 
Witness' d of mutability, in all 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching m a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, 
Fme passing thought e'en in her coarsest works, 
Delight in agitation, yet sustam 
The force that agitates, not unimpair'd ; 
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little, of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to thy root — and time has been 
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms. 
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! 
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hcAvn by thousands to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd 
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 

14 



COWPER. 

With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd a labour which had far and wide. 
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems 
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink. 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou could' st ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs. 
Which, crook' d into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid. 
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 



Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off 
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, 
With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left 
A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white ; 
And some, memorial none where once they grew. 
But life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can. 
Even where death predominates. The Spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'riug wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their birth received 
Half a millennium since the date of thine. 

15 



YARDLEY OAK. 

But since, although well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none. 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
In my own ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all, 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, 
AVith mute unconsciousness of what he saw. 
On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor ow'd articulation to his ear ; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man. 
At once upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd 
To each his name significant, and, fill'd 
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heav'n 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excus'd the penalties of dull 
Minority : no tutor charg'd his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme. 



16 




LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With mc but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" 
17 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honour with an artless song. 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,. 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hover' d thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing, son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? It was. — Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
]\Iay I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
^ What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd ; 
By expectation every day beguil'd. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 

18 



COWPER. 

I learn' d at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

WHiere once we dwelt our name is heard no more. 
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 
And where the gard'ncr Kobin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capjj'd, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. * 
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; — 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
That humour interpos'd too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a- frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile.) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
I would not trust my heart ; — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desir'd, perhapS I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 

19 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constram 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather' d, and the ocean cross' d) 
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, 
" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ;" 
And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd, — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd. 
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my provid pretensions rise, — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew' d the joys that once were mine 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succe'eded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left. 

20 




HAYLEY. 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 



" Well may'st thou bend o'er this congenial sphere ; 
For Sensibility is Sovereign here. 
Thou seest her train of sprightly damsels sport, 
Wliere the soft spirit holds her rural court ; 
But fix thine eye attentive to the plain, 
And mark the varying wonders of her reign." 
As thus she spoke, she pois'd her airy seat 
High o'er a plain exhaling every sweet ; 
For round its precincts all the flowers that bloom 
Fill'd the delicious air with rich perfume ; 
And in the midst a verdant throne appear'd, 

21 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 

In simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd, 

And deck'd with flowers ; not such whose flaunting dyes 

Strike with the strongest tint our dazzl'd eyes ; 

But those wild herbs that tend'rest fibres bear, 

And shun th' approaches of a damper air. 

Here stood the lovely ruler of the scene, 

And beauty, more than pomp, announc'd The Queen. 

The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose, 

The simple circle of her crown compose ; 

Koses of every hue her robe adorn. 

Except th' insipid rose without a thorn. 

Of that enchaiiting age her figure seems, 

When smiling nature with the vital beams 

Of vivid youth, arid Pleasure's purple flame, 

Gilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame, 

With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild. 

And just between the woman and the child. 

Her fair left arm around a vase she flings. 

From which the tender plant mimosa springs; 

Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends. 

The youthful fair her vacant hand extends 

With gentle motion, anxious to survey 

How far the feeling fibres own her sway ; 

The leaves, as conscious of their Queen's command, 

Successive fall at her approaching hand ; 

While her soft breast with pity seems to pant. 

And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant. 

Around their sovereign, on the verdant ground, 
Sweet airy forms in mystic measures bound. 
Unnumber'd damsels different charms display. 
Pensive with biiss, or in their pleasures gay. 
But, the bright triumphs of their joy to check, 
In the clear air there hangs a dusky speck ; 
It swells — it spreads — and rapid, as it grows. 
O'er the gay scene a chilling shadow throws. 
The soft Serena, who beheld its flight. 
Suspects no evil from a cloud so light ; 

22 



HAYLEY. 

But, ah ! too soon, with pity's tender pain, 
She saw its dire effect o'er all the plain : 
Sudden from thence the sounds of anguish flow, 
And joy's sweet carols end hi shrieks of woe. 
Here gloomy Terror, with a shadowy rope, 
Seems, like a Turkish mute, to strangle Hope 
But pangs more cruel, more intensely keen. 
Wound and distract their sympathetic Queen. 
With fruitless tears she o'er their misery bends ; 
From her sweet brow the thorny rose she rend?. 
And, bow'd by griefs insufferable weight, 
Frantic she curses her immortal state : 
The soft Serena, as this curse she hears, 
Feels her bright eye suffus'd with kindred tears. 

The guardian Fowek survey'd her lovely grief, 
And spoke in gentle terms of mild relief: 
" For this soft tribe they heaviest fear dismiss, 
And know their pains are transient as their bliss: 
Eapture and agony, in Nature's loom. 
Have form'd the changing tissue of their doom; 
Both interwoven with so nice an art, 
No power can tear the twisted threads apart ; 
Yet happier these, to Nature's heart more dear, 
Than the dull offspring in the torpid sphere, 
Where her warm wishes, and affections kind. 
Lose their bright current in the stagnant ndnd. 
Here gi-ief and joy so suddenly unite, 
That anguish serves to sublimate delight." 
She spoke ; and, ere Serena could rejily, 
The vapour vanish'd from the lucid sky. 
The nymphs revive, the shadowy fiends are fled, 
The new-born flowers a richer fragrance shed, — 
While on the lovely Queen's enchanting face, 
Departed sorrow's faint and fainter trace 
Gave to each touching charm a more attractive grace. 



23 




HURDIS. 

RURAL SOUNDS. 

Be nothing heard, 
Save the far-distant mnrmur of the deep- 

24: 



HURDIS. 

Or the near grasshopper's mcessant note, 
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits, 
And chirping imitates the silvery chink 

Of wages told into the ploughman's palm 

Or gentle cm-lew bidding kind good night 
To the spent villager, or ere his hand 
Tlie cottage taper quench — or grazing ox 
His dewy supper from the savoury herb 
Audibly gathering — or cheerful hind 
From the lov'd harvest feast returning home 
Whistling at intervals some rustic air. 

Such rural sounds. 
If haply notic'd by the musing mind, 
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve 
The solemn luxury of idle thought. 
If not abroad I sit, but sip at home 
The cheering beverage of fading eve, 
By some fair hand, or ere it reach the lip. 
With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane 
And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock. 
As from the window studious looks mine eye, 
Steal fold- ward nibbling o'er the shado^vy down- 
Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm 
Wend slowly from the pasture to the pail. 
Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, 
And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript, 
Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed. 
Eager to gratify his fjimish'd lip 
With taste of herbage and the meadow-brook. 



25 




CHARLOTTE SMITH. 



THE SWALLOW. 



The gorse is yellow on the heath, 

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, 
The oaks are budding ; and beneath. 
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, 
The silver wreath of May. 
26 



CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

The welcome guest of settled Spring, 
The Swallow, too, is come at last ; 
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 
I saw her clash with rapid wing. 
And hail'd her as she pass'd. 

Come, sununer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay, 
And let my ear your music catch. 
Low twittering underneath the thatch, 
At the grey dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian Sage, 

The Hindustani woods among. 
Could in his desert hermitage, 
As if 'twere mark'd in written page, 

Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his power possess. 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee. 
What our vain systems only guess, 
And know from what wild wilderness 

You came across the sea. 

I would a little while restrain 

Your rapid wing, that I might hear 
Whether on clouds that bring the rain. 
You sail'd above the western mam. 
The wind your charioteer. 

In Afric, does the sultry gale, 

Through spicy bower, and palmy grove, 
Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale? 
Dwells there a time, the wandering Rail, 

Or the itinerant Dove? 
27 



THE SWALLOW. 

Were you in Asia? O relate, 
If there your fabled sister's woes 

She seem'd in sorrow to narrate ; 

Or sings she but to celebrate 
Her nuptials with the rose? 

I would inquire how, journeying long 
The vast and pathless ocean o'er, 

You ply again those pinions strong, 

And come to build anew among 
The scenes you left before ; 

But if, as cooler breezes blow. 

Prophetic of the waning year. 
You hide, though none know when or how, 
In the cliff's excavated brow, 

And linger torpid here ; 

Thus lost to life, what favouring dream 

Bids you to happier hours awake ; 
And tells, that dancing in the beam, 
The light gnat hovers o'er the strean). 
The May-fly on the lake? 

Or if, by instinct taught to know 

Approaching dearth of insect food. 
To isles and willowy aits you go, 
And crowding on the pliant bough. 
Sink in the dimpling flood: 

How learn ye, Avhile the cold waves boom 

Your deep and oosy couch above. 
The time when flowers of promise bloom, 
And call you from your transient tomb, 
To light, and life, and love ? 
28 



CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Alas! how little can be known, 

Her sacred veil where Nature draws ; 
Let baffled Science humbly own, 
Her mysteries understood alone 
By Him who gives her laws. 



SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 

Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, 
Anemones, that spangled every grove. 

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the dell. 

Or purple orchis variegate the plain. 
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell. 

And dress Avith humid hands her wreaths again. 

Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, 

Are the fond visions of thy early day. 
Till tyi-ant passion, and corrosive care. 

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! 
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; 

Ah! why has happiness no second spring? 



29 



SONNETS. 



SONNET. 



Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, 

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, 
And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay, 

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding floAvers, 
Wearing gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, 

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; 
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! 

So charm' d my way with Friendship and the INIuse. 

But darker now grows life's unhappy day. 
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come. 

Her pencil, sickening, Fancy throws away, 
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb. 

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. 



SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await. 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate. 

And still protect the song she loves so well. 

With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest ; 

And shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide 
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best: 

For still thy voice shall soft affections move. 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 
30 




FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 



I ONCE was happy, when, while yet a child 
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, 
And when, elastic as the mountain air. 
To my light spirit care was yet unknown, 
And evil unforeseen : — early it came, 
31 



FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 

And childhood scarcely past, I Avas condemn'd, 

A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, 

Wliile Memory, Avitli faithful jjencil, drew 

The contrast ; and regretting, I compar'd 

With the polluted smoky atmosphere 

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills, 

That, to the setting sun their graceful heads 

Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks 

With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide, 

When western winds the vast Atlantic ui'ge 

To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth ! 

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 

Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes 

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 

By scatter'd thorns ; whose spring branches bore 

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb 

There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : 

And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf. 

To look beneath upon the hollow way 

While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, 

And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,' 

To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone 

The" grating wheel. 

Advancing higher still. 
The prospect widens, and the village church 
But little, o'er the lowly roofs around, 
Rears its grey belfry, and its simple vane ; 
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal' d 
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring, 
When on each bough the rosy tinctur'd bloom 
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit. 
Console them for the vineyards of the South, 
Surpass not these. 

Where woods of ash, and beech, 
And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, 
32 



CHAKLOTTE SMITH. 

The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; 

There wanders by a little nameless stream 

That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, 

Or after rain with chalky mixture grey, 

But still refreshing in its shallow course 




The cottage garden ; most for use design'd, 
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
Mantles the little casement ; yet the briar 
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks 

33 c 



FEOM "BEACHY HEAD." 

Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue ; 

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 

Almost uncultur'd : some with dark green leaves 

Contrast then" flowers of pure unsullied white ; 

Others like velvet robes of regal state 

Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss 

Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear 

The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. — • 

With fond regret I recollect e'en now 

In Spring and Summer what delight I felt 

Among these cottage gardens, and hoAV much 

Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 

By village housewife or her ruddy maid, 

Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleas'd, 

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 

I lov'd her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, 

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows. 

And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes 

Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine, 

Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch 

With bittersweet and bryony inweave, 

And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups- — 

I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks 

Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil ; 

And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech. 

Lending in Summer from the heats of noon 

A wh'^pering shade ; while haply there reclines 

Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, 

Who from the tumps, with bright green mosses clad, 

Plucks the wood sorrel with its light thin leaves, 

Heart-shap'd, and triply-folded, and its root 

Creeping like beaded coral ; or who there 

Gathers, the copse's pride, anemones. 

With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 

Most delicate : but touch'd Avith purple clouds, 

Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. 



34 



ANNA SEWARD. 



SONG. 



From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly; 
From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide ; 
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they. 
Has Avreck'd my warm hopes by her pride ! — 
Yet lonely and rude as the scene. 
Her smile to that scene could impart 
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vaie — 
But away, thou fond dream of my heart ! 
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I flyl 

Now the blasts of the winter come on, 
And the waters grow dark as they rise ! 
But 'tis well ! they resemble the sullen disdain 
That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. 
Sincere Avere the sighs they represt. 
But they rose in the days that are flown ! 
Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art. 
My spirit is proud as thine own. 

From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly ! 

Lo ! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread 
To escape the 'loud storm by their flight; 
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat 
From the winds and the billows of night ; 
Like them, to the home of my youth, 
Like them, to its shades I retire ; 
Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, 
From the pangs of insulted desire ! 
. To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! 
35 



DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES. 

When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrown 

The blood-nurs'd tyrant on his purple throne, 

Gnomes ! your bold forms unnumber'd arms outstretch, 

And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wretch. 

Thus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts 

From Persia's rocks to Egypt's trembling coasts, 

Defiled each hallow'd fane, and sacred wood, 

And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile Avith blood ; 

Wav'd his proud banner o'er the Theban states. 

And pour'd destruction through her hundi-ed gates ; 

In dread divisions march'd the marshall'd bands, 

And swarming armies blacken' d all the lands. 

By Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains. 

And those to Ammon's sand-encircled fanes. 

Slow as they pass'd the indignant temples frown'd, 

Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground ; 

Long aisles of cypress wav'd their deepen'd glooms, 

And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs ; 

Prophetic whispers breath'd from Sphinx's tongue. 

And Memnon's lyre with hollow mvu'murs rung ; 

Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, 

And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd cones, 

Day after day their dreadful rout they steer. 

Lust in the van, and rapine in the rear. 

Gnomes ! as they march'd, you hid the gather'd fruits, 
The bladed grass, sweet grains, and mealy roots ; 
Scar'd the tired quails, that journey o'er their heads, 
Retain'd the locusts in their earthy beds ; 
Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, 
Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill. 
Loud o'er the camp the fiend of Famine shrieks. 
Calls all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks; 

36 



DARWIN. . 

O'er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand, 
And twilight swims upon the shuddering hand ; 
Perch'd on her crest the griffin Discord clings, 
And giant Murder rides between her wings ; 
Blood from each clotted hair, and horny quill, 
And showers of tears in blended streams distil ; 
High pois'd in air her spiry neck she bends, 
Rolls her keen eye, her di'agon-claws extends, 
Darts from above, and tears at each fell swoop 
With iron fangs the decimated troop. 

Now o'er their head the whizzing whirlwinds breathe. 
And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath ; 
Tinged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise 
Of eddying sands, and war amid the skies, 
In red arcades the billowy plain surround. 
And whirling turrets stalk along the ground. 
— Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, 
To demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. — 
Wlieel in wide circle, form in hollow square, 
And now they front, and now they fly the war, 
Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries. 
Press their parch'd lips, and close their bloodshot eyes. 
— Gnomes ! o'er the waste you led your myriad powers, 
Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers ! 
Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge, 
Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge ; 
Wave over wave the driving desert swims. 
Bursts o'er their heads, inhumes their struggling limbs ; 
Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush. 
Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush, — 
Wheeling in air the winged islands fall. 
And one great earthy ocean covers all ! — 
Then ceased the storm, — Night bow'd his Ethiop brow 
To earth, and listen'd to the groans below, — 
Grim Horror shook, — awhile the living hill 
Heaved with convulsive throes, — and all was still ! 

37 



ANTIQUE GEMS. 
THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 

THE EAGLE. 

So, when with bristling plumes the bird of Jove 
Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, 
Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes, 
And grasps the lightning in his shining claws. 

THE CHILD SLEEPING. 

No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest. 

So soft no pillow as his mother's breast ! — 

— Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours 

Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers, 

The Cherub Innocence, with smile divine, 

Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. 

LOVE RIDING ON THE LION. 

So playful Love on Ida's flowery sides 
With ribbon-rein the indignant lion guides ; 
Pleased on his brindled back the lyre he rings. 
And shakes delirious rapture from the strings ; 
Slow as the pausing monarch stalks along, 
Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song. 
Soft nymphs on timid step the triumph view. 
And listening fiiwns with beating hoofs pursue; 
With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, 
And love and music soften savage hearts. 



38 




TASTE. 

If the wide eye the wavy lawns explores, 
The bending woodlands, or the winding shores. 
Hills, whose green sides with soft protuberance rise, 
Or the blue concave of the vaulted skies ; — 
Or scans with nicer gaze the pearly swell 
Of spiral volutes round the twisted shell ; 
Or undulating sweep, whose gi-aceful turns 
Bound the smooth surface of Etrurian urns, 
When on fine forms the waving lines impress'd 
Give the nice curves, which swell the female breast ; 
The countless joys the tender mother pours 
Ivound the soft cradle of ovir infant hours, 
In lively trains of unextinct delight 
Rise in our bosoms recognised by sight ; 
Fond Fancy's eye recals the form divine. 
And Taste sits smiling upon Beauty's shrine. 



Where Egypt's pyramids gigantic stand, 
And stretch their shadows o'er the shuddering sand; 
Or where high rocks, o'er ocean's dashing floods. 
Wave high in air their panoply of woods : 
39 



TASTE. 

Admiring Taste delights to stray beneath 
With eye uplifted, and forgets to breathe ; 
Or, as aloft his daring footsteps climb. 
Crests their high summits with his arm sublime. 

AVliere mouldering columns mark the lingering wrecl' 

Of Thebes, Palmyra, Babylon, Balbec ; 

The prostrate obelisk, or shatter'd dome, 

Uprooted pedestal, and yawning tomb, 

On loitering steps reflective Taste surveys 

"With folded arms and sympathetic gaze ; 

Charm'd with poetic Melancholy treads 

O'er ruin'd towns and desolated meads ; 

Or rides sublime on Time's expanded wings, 

And views the fate of ever-changing things. 

When Beauty's streaming eyes her woes express, 
Or Virtue braves unmerited distress ; 
Love sighs in sympathy, with pain combin'd. 
And new-born Pity charms the kindred mind ; 
The enamour'd Sorrow every cheek bedews, 
And Taste impassion' d woos the tragic Muse. 

The rush-thatch'd cottage on the purple moor. 
Where ruddy children frolic round the door, 
The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak. 
The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke, 
The bearded goat with nimble eyes, that glare 
Through the long tissue of his hoary hair, 
As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall 
And crops the ivy, which prevents its fall ; 
With rural charms the tranquil mind delight. 
And form a picture to th' admiring sight. 
While Taste with pleasure bends his eye surpris'd 
In modern days at Nature unchastis'd. 



40 




CROWE. 

LEWESDON HILL. 

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous Hill ! 
Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath 
And russet fern, thy seemly-colour'd cloak, 
To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains 
41 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Of chill December, and art gaily robed 

In livery of the spring: upon thy brow 

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck 

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick 

Of golden bloom ; nor lack thee tufted woods 

Adown thy sides : tall oaks of lusty green, 

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops 

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts 

In many a wa\y fold of verdant M-reath : 

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up 

Against the birth of May ; and, vested so, 

Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd 

Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows, 

Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams. 

From vanity to costly vanity 

Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress, 

From sad to gay returning with the year. 

Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall changCo 

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene 
At each return of Spring : yet some delight 
Rather to view the change ; and fondly gaze 
On fading colours, and the thousand tints 
Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: 
I like them not, for all their boasted hues 
Are kin to sickliness ; mortal decay 
Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone. 
They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise 
Such false complexions, and for beauty take 
A look consumption-bred? As' soon, if grey 
Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown, 
I'd call it beautiful variety. 
And therefore doat on her. Yet I can spy 
A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes 
The yellow Autumn, and the hopes o' the year 
Brings on to golden ripeness ; nor dispraise 
The pure and spotless form of that sharp time, 



CROWE. 

When January spreads a pall of snow 

O'er the dead face of tli' undistingui^h'd earth. 

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath, 

And bless this friendly mount, that Aveather-fends 

My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast 

From the thick North comes howling; till the Spring 

Eeturn, who leads my devious steps abroad, 

To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top. 

From this proud eminence on all sides round 
Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view. 
On all sides large ; save only where the head 
Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen : 
So call (still rendering to his ancient name 
Observance due) that rival Height south-west. 
Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. 
There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen 
Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade 
Of some Avide-branching oak ; there goodly fields 
Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine. 
Returning with their milky treasure home. 
Store the rich dairy; such fair plenty fills 
The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now. 
Since that the Spring hath deck'd anew the meads 
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun 
Their foggy moistness drain' d ; m wintry days 
Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks 
Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin 
To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time 
The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, 
Eechasing, lest his tender ewes should coatli 
In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields 
Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named 
Of the White Horse, its antique monument 
Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth 
Might equal, though surpassing in extent, 
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 
43 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Extended to the sea, and water' d well 

By many a rill ; but chief with thy clear stream, 

Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side 

Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip 

Adown the valley, wandering sportively. 




Alas! how soon thy little course will end! 
How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself 
In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow 
To name or greatness! Yet it flows along 
Untainted with the commerce of the world. 
44 



CROWE. 

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men ; 
But through sequester'd meads, a little space, 
Winds secretly, and in its wanton path 
May cheer some drooping flower, or minister 
Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb : 
Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure 
As when it issued from its native hill. 

How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen. 
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now 
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top 
Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now 
A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk 
Becomes ainiihilate, or if not, a spot 
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. 
And even so fares it with the things of earth 
Which seem most constant : there will come the cloud 
That shall enfold them up, and leave their place 
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken 
Reaches too for, when all that we behold 
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, 
Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings 
(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) 
Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem 
To foster Avhat they touch, and mortal fools 
Rejoice beneath their hovering : Woe the while ! 
For in that indefatigable flight 
The multitudinous strokes incessantly 
Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all 
His secret injury : on the front of man 
Grey hairs and wrinkles ; still as Time speeds on, 
Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat 
With ceaseless violence ; nor overpass, 
Till all the creatures of this nether world 
Are one wide quarry ; following dai*k behind, 
The cormorant Oblivion swallows up 
The carcases that Time has made his prey. 
45 



LEWESDON HILL. 

But hark ! the village clock strikes nine — the chimes 

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense 

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make 

False-measured melody on crazy bells. 

O wondrous power of modulated sound ! 

Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape 

Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade 

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock 

The close affections, by some fairy path 

Winning an easy way through every ear. 

And with thine unsubstantial quality 

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all ; 

All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits 

Who feel no touch of sympathy, or love. 

Yet what is music, and the blended power 

Of voice with instruments of wind and string? 

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise ! 

'Tis past ; and all that it has left behind 

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear 

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside, 

A void and countless hour in life's brief day. 

Now I descend 
To join the worldly crowd ; perchance to talk. 
To think, to act as they : then all tliese thoughts. 
That lift th' expanded heart above this spot 
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away, 
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view,) 
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares. 
So passeth human life — our better mind 
Is as a Sunday's garment, then put on 
When we have nought to do ; but at our work 
AVe wear a Avorse for thrift. 



46 




F^f'p^y:->.it^ 



PEECY. 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tell his beades ; 
47 



THE FEIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

And he met with a lady faire 
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. 

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar. 

I pray thee tell to me, 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see?" 

" And how should I know your true love 

From many another one ?" 
"O, by his cockle hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoone ; 

"But chiefly by his face and mien. 

That Avere so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, 

And eyne of lovely blue." 

" O lad}^, he is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turfe, 

And at his heels a stone. 

"Within these holy cl oysters long 

He languisht, and he dyed, 
Lamenting of a ladye's love. 

And 'playning of her pride. 

" Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall, 
And many a tear bedew' d his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall." 

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth, 
And art thou dead and gone ! 

And didst thou dye for love of me ! 
Bi-eak, cruel heart of stone!" 
48 



PERCY. 

" O weep not, lady, weep not soe : 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Ne teares bedew thy cheek." 

" O do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won ladye's love. 

" And nowe, alas ! for thy i^d losse, 

I'll evermore Aveep and sigh : 
P'or thee I only wisht to live, 

For thee I wish to dye." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrowe is in vaine : 
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow againe. 

" Our joys as winged dreams doe flye ; 

Why, then, should sorrow last? 
Since grief but aggravates thy losse, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

" O say not soe, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee, say not soe : 
For since my true-love dyed for mee, 

'Tis meet my teares should flow. 

"And will he never come again? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, 

For ever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the rose ; 
The comeliest youth was he ! 

49 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

But he is dead and laid in his grave : 
Alas ! and woe is me !" 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

"Now say not soe, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not soe ; 
My love he had the truest heart: 

O he was ever true ! 

"And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youtb, 

And didst thou dye for meel 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will bee. 

"But first upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay. 
And thrice I'll kiss the green grass-turf 

That wraps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 

Beneath this cloyster wall : 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

"O stay me not, thou holy friar; 

stay me not, I pray ; 
No drizzly rain that falls on mc 

Can wash my fault away." 
50 



PERCY. 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gown of gray 

Thy owne true-love apjjears. 

"Here, forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here amid these lonely Avails 

To end my days I thought. 

" But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet pass'd away, 
Might I still hope to M'in thy love, 

No longer would I stay." 

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I've found thee, lovely j^outh, 

We never more will part." 



GENTLE RIVER. 

Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore, 
Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy willow' d shore. 

All beside thy limpid waters. 
All beside thy sands so bright, 

]\Ioorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors 
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 
51 



GENTLE RIVER. 

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes. 
On thy fatal banks were slain : 

Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter 
All the pride and flower of Spain. 

There the hero, brave Alonzo, 
Full of wounds and glory, died : 

There the fearless Urdiales 
Fell a victim by his side. 

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra 

Through their squadrons slow retires; 

Proud Seville, his native city. 
Proud Seville his worth admires. 



Close behind, a renegado 

Loudly shouts with taunting cry: 
"Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra; 

Dost thou from the battle fly? 

"Well I know thee, haughty Christian, 
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; 

Oft I've in the lists of glory 

Seen thee win the prize of proof. 

"AVell I know thy aged parents. 
Well thy blooming bride I know ; 

Seven years I was thy captive, 
Seven years of pain and woe. 

"May our Prophet grant my wishes. 
Haughty Chief, thou shalt be mine ; 

Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow. 
Which I drank when I was thine." 
52 




Like a lion turns the warrioi* 
Back he sends an angry glare : 

^^Hiizzing came the Moorish javelin, 
^'ainly whizzing through the air. 
53 



GENTLE RIVER. 

Back the hero, full of fury, 

Sent a deep and mortal wound : 

Instant sunk the Renegado, 

Mute and lifeless on the ground. 

With a thousand Moors surrounded, 
Brave Saavedra stands at bay : 

Wearied out, but never .daunted, 
Cold at length the v^^arrior lay. 

Near him fighting, great Alonzo 
Stout resists the Paynim bands ; 

From his slaughter' d steed dismounted 
Firm intrench'd behind him stands. 

Furious press the hostile squadron. 
Furious he repels their rage : 

Loss of blood at length enfeebles : 
Who can war with thousands wage ! 

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows. 
Close beneath its foot retir'd, 

Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero, 
And without a groan explr'd. 



54 




CEABBE. 

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

Again, the country was enclosed, a mde 
And sandy road has banks on either side; 
Where, lo ! a hollow on. the left appear'd, 
And there a Gipsy tribe their tent had reard; 
55 



A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, 

And they had now their early meal begun, 

When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, 

The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet: 

While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 

He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 

Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly. 

Prepared the force of early powers to try; 

Sudden a look of languor he descries, 

And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; 

Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face 

He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; 

When a light laugh and roguish leer express' d 

The vice implanted in her youthful breast: 

Forth from the tent her elder brother came. 

Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame 

The young designer, but could only trace 

The looks of pity in the Trav'ller' s face: 

Within, the Father, who from fences nigh 

Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, 

Watch' d now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by. 

On ragged rug, just borrow' d from the bed. 

And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed. 

In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, 

Reclin'd the Wife, an infant at her breast; 

In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, 

Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; 

Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 

Were Avrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, 

Cursing his tardy aid — her Mother there 

With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair; 

Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands 

And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, 

Tracing the lines of life ; assum'd through years, 

Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; 

With hard and savage eye she views the food, 

And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 



CRABBE. 

Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits, 
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : 
Useless, despis'd, his worthless labours done. 
And half protected by the vicious Son, 
Who half supports him ; he with heavy glance 
Views the young ruffians who around him dance ; 
And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
To trace the progress of their future years : 
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 
Must wildly wander each unpractis'd cheat! 
What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, 
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — 
Ere they like him approach their latter end. 
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Be it the Summer-noon : a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move; 
(For heated thus, the Avarmer air ascends, 
And with the cooler in its fall contends) — 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps. 
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand. 
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand. 
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 
57 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Ships in the cairn seem anchor' d ; for tliey glide 
On the still sea, urg'd solely by the tide : 
Art thou not present, this calm scene before, 
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore. 
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more ? 

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make 
The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; 
As an awaken'd giant with a frown 
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. 

View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloud. 
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud: 
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before, 
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore ; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form, 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 

All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam. 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change ; the waves so swell'd and steep, 
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells. 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace. 
As if contending in their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force, 
And then, re-flowing, take their grating course, 
Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last 

Far off the Petrel in the troubled way 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; 
She rises often, often drops again, 
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gunner's hope, vast flocks of Wild-ducks stretch ; 
Far as the eye can glance on either side, 
In a broad space and level line they glide; 
58 







All in their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
And drop for prey within the sweepmg surge ; 
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly 
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, 
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; 

59 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, 
And in the restless ocean clip for rest. 

Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind 
Appals the weak, and awes the firmer mind ; 
But frights not him whom evening and the spray 
Li part conceal — yon Prowler on his way: 
Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, 
As if he fear'd companion in the chase ; 
He sees his prize, and now he turns again, 
Slowly and sorrowing — "Was your search in vain?" 
Gruffly he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight ! — 
A seaman's body : there'll be more to-night !" 
Hark to those soimds ! they're from distress at sea : 
How quick they come ! What terrors may there be ! 
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern 
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern. 
Others behold them too, and from the to\\Ti 
In various parties seamen hurry do^v^i ; 
Their viives pursue, and damsels, urged by dread. 
Lest men so dear be into danger led ; 
Theu' head the gowai has hooded, and their call 
In this sad night is piercing like the squall ; 
They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet. 
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat. 

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm. 
Has fondly seiz'd upon her lover's arm ; 
" Thou shalt not venture ;" and he answers " No ! 
I will not:" — still she cries, "Thou shalt not go." 

No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat 
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float ; 
Yet may thoy view these lights upon the beach, 
Wliich yield them hope whom help can never reach. 

From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws 
On the Avild waves, and all the danger shows ; 
But shows them beaming in her shining vest, 
Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress' d ! 



60 



CRABBE. 

This foi- a moment, and then clouds again 
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign. 

But hear we not those sounds? Do lights appear? 
I see them not ! the storm alone I hear : 
And lo! the saUors homeward take their waj; 
Man must endure — let us submit and pray. 




Gl 




A GOOD VILLAGER. 



Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, 
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
Noble he was, contemning all things mean, 
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene : 
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd ; 
62 



CRABBE. 

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace , 

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face : 

Yet Avhile the serious thought his soul approv'tl, 

Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd ; 

To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd, 

And with the firmest had the fondest mind ; 

Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 

And gave allowance where he needed none ; 

Good he refus'd v/ith future ill to buy, 

Nor knew a joy that caus'd Reflection's sigh; 

A friend to Virtue, his unclouded breast 

No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; 

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind. 

To miss one favour, which their neighbours find :) 

Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd ; 

He felt hvunanely, and he Avarmly lov'd : 

I mark'd his action, when his infant died, 

And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 

The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek, 

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, 

Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 

Nor pride in learning, — though my clerk agreed, 

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 

None his superior, and his equals few : — 

But if that spirit in his soul had place. 

It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd. 

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd ; 

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, 

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 

Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied, — 

In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd Pride. 

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim ; 
Christian and countrymen were all with him: 
True to his church he came ; no Sunday-shower 
63 



A GOOD VILLAGER. 

Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
By the strong glare of their new light direct : — 
"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." 

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain 
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; 
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, 
And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 

At length he found, when seventy years were run. 
His strength departed, and his labour done ; 
When he, save honest fame, retain' d no more. 
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : 
'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — 
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : — 

"Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied,) 
That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide. 
And they are just; — when young we give you all, 
And for assistance in our weakness call. — 
"Why then this proud reluctance to be fed. 
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ? 
But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, 
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; 
He who, by contract, all your paupers took, 
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: 
On some old master I could well depend; 
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend ; 
But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, 
And counts our chances who at night may die : 
Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain 
Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." 

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew ; 
Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view ! 
But came not there, for sudden was his fate, 
He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate. 

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : 
64 



CEABBE. 

I see no more those white locks thmly spread 
Round the bald polish of that honour'd head ; 
No more that awful glance on playful wight, 
Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
To fold his lingers, all in dread the while, 
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; 
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: — 
But he is blest, and I lament no more 
A wise good man contented to be poor. 



THE PARTING LOOK. 

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot 

The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 

They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, 

Yet said not so, "Perhaps he will not sink:" 

A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, 

A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; — 

She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 

And led him forth, and placed him in his chaii" ; 

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. 

The friendly many and the favourite few: 

Not one that day did he to mind recal 

But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all ; 

When in her way she meets them, they appear 

Peculiar people,— death has made them dear. 

He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd, 

And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest." 

"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found 

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! 

Then gazed affrighten'd ; but she caught a last, 

A dying look of love, — and all was past ! 

65 E 



MARY TIGHE. 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. 



Allow'd to settle on celestial eyes, 
Soft Sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, 
From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies 
To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray 
The Powers of heaven submissively obey. 
Trembling and breathless then she softly rose. 
And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay. 
With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. 

Twice, as with agitated step she went, 
The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam. 
As though it warn'd her from her rash intent •, 
And twice she paus'd, and on its trembling beam 
Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem 
With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; 
As one just waking from a troublous dream. 
With palpitating heart and straining eye, 
Still fix'd with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. 

Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay 
To paint the wonders which that lamp could show? 
And canst thou hope in living words to say 
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view? 
Ah ! well I ween that, if with pencil true 
66 



MARY TIGHE. 

That splendid vision could be well exprest, 
The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, 
Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, 
When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest. 

All imperceptible to human touch, 
His wings display celestial essence light ; 
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such. 
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright, 
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years. 
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight. 
Each golden curl resplendently appears, 
Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears ; 

Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright 
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw. 
That front than polish'd ivory more white ! 
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow: 
While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews, 
(Those lips divine that even in silence know 
The heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse. 
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway. 
But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep 
Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray, 
Which o'er his features exquisitely play, 
And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light ; 
Thus through some narrow space the azure day. 
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, 
Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. 

His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
Beside the couch were negligently thrown, 
67 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. 

Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show 
His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone 
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; 
The gloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire, 
Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherish'd son ; 
And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire. 
And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. 

Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost. 
Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
Her limbs immovable, her senses tost 
Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy. 
She hangs enamour'd o'er the deity — 
Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls 
The fatal lamp. — He starts — and suddenly 
Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, 
While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. 

Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, 
A mortal chillness shudders at her breast ; 
Her soul shrinks fainting from Death's icy dart, 
The groan scarce utter'd dies but half-exprest. 
And down she sinks in deadly swoon opprest ; 
But when, at length, awakening from her trance 
The terrors of her fate stand all contest, 
In vain she casts around her timid glance, 
The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. 

No traces of those joys, alas ! remain ; 
A desert solitude alone appears. 
No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain. 
The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers. 
One barren face the dreary prospect wears ; 
Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye 
To calm the dismal tumult of her fears. 
No trace of human habitation nigh, 
A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. 

68 




ANN RADCLIFFE. 



TO MELANCHOLY. 



Spirit of love and sorrow, — hail ! 

Thy solemn voice from far I hear, 
Mingling with Evening's dying gale, 

Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! 



Oh, at this still, this lonely hour, 

Thine o^vn sweet hour of closing day, 

Awake thy lute, whose charmful power 
Shall call up Fancy to obey ; 
G9 



TO MELANCHOLY, 

To paint the wild romantic dream, 
That meets the poet's musing eye, 

As on the bank of shadowy stream 
He breathes to her the fervid sigh. 

lonely spirit! let thy song 

Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ; 
The minster's moonlight aisles along, 

Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. 

1 hear their dirges faintly swell ! 
Then sink at once in silence drear, 

While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, 
Dimly their gliding forms appear! 

Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, 
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen. 

As the cold moon, with trembling eye, 
Darts her long beams the leaves betweer. 

Lead to the mountain's dusky head. 
Where, far below, in shades profound, 

Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, 
And sad the chimes of vesper sound. 

Or guide me where the dashing oar 
Just breaks the stillness of the vale : 

As slow it tracks the winding shore, 
To meet the ocean's distant sail : 

To pebbly banks that Neptune laves, 
With measur'd surges, loud and deep ; 

Where the dark cliif bends o'er the waves, 
And wild the winds of Autumn sweep. 

There pause at midnight's spectred hour, 
And list the long-resounding gale; 

And catch the fleeting moonlight's power 
O'er foaming seas and distant sail. 
70 



ANN KADCLIFFE. 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 



In the sightless air I dwell, 

On the sloping sunbeams play; 
Delve the cavern's inmost cell, 

Where never yet did daylight stray. 

I dive beneath the green sea waves, 

And gambol in the briny deeps ; 
Skim every shore that Neptune laves, 

From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. 

Oft I mount with rapid force. 

Above the Vvdde earth's shadoviy zone, 

Follow the day-star's flaming course, 

Through realms of space to thought unknown ; 

And listen to celestial sounds 

That swell in air, unheard of men. 

As I watch my nightly rounds 
O'er woody steep and silent glen. 

Under the shade of waving trees. 

On the green bank of fountain clear, 

At pensive eve I sit at ease. 

While dying music murmurs near. 

And oft, on point of airy clift 

That hangs upon the western main, 

I watch the gay tints passing swift. 
And twilight veil the liquid plain. 
71 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 

Then, when the breeze has sunk away., 
And Ocean scarce is heard to lave. 

For me the sea-nymphs softly play 
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave. 

Their dulcet shells! — I hear them now; 

Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; 
Now faintly falls — now warbles low, 

Till rapture melts into a tear. 

The ray that silvers o'er the dew, 

And trembles through the leafy shade, 

And tints the scene with softer hue. 
Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; 

Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, 
Faintly shown by moonlight gleam, 

Wliere the lone wanderer owns my power, 
In shadows dire that substance seem ; 

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe. 
And pausing silence make more di'ead ; 

In music breathing from below 

Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. 

Unseen I move — unknown am fear'd ; — 
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; 

And oft by bards my voice is heard 
To die along the gales of eve. 



72 




ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION 

"One sun by day, by night tea thousand shine." — Young. 

'Tis past, — tlie sultry tyrant of the South 
Has spent his short-liv'd rage ; more grateful hours 

73 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Move silent on ; the skies no more repel 
The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams 
Of temper'd lustre, court the cherish'd eye 
To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft 
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow. 
New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns 
Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines 
Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
Of soften'd radiance with her dewy locks. 
The shadows spread apace ; whUe meeken'd Eve, 
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
Through the Hesperian gardens of the West, 
And shuts the gates of Day. 'Tis now the hour 
When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth , 

Of unpierc'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade 
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, 
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun. 
Moves forward; and with radiant finger points 
To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divme. 
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven 
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires, 
And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, 
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd 
O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field. 
And worthy of the Master: He, whose hand 
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile 
Inscribed the mystic tablet ; hung on high 
To public gaze, and said, Adore, O man! 
The finger of thy God. From what pure wells 
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn. 
Are all these lamps so fill'd? — these friendly lamps, 
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep 
To point our path, and light us to our home. 

74 



AXNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

How soft they slide along their lucid spheres ! 

And, silent as the foot of Time, fulfil 

Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is husli'd, 

And, but a scatter' d leaf, which rustles through 

The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 

To break the midnight air ; though the rais'd ear, 

Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. 

How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! 

But are they silent all? or is there not 

A tongue in every star that talks with man, 

And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : 

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought. 

And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 

At this still hour the self-collected soul 

Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 

An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine, 

Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 

(Fair transitory creature of a day !) 

Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wi'apt in shades, 

Forgets his wonted journey through the East. 

Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods ! 
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, 
Revolving periods past, may oft look back. 
With recollected tenderness, on all 
The various busy scenes she left below, 
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, 
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd 
Her infant hours — O be it lawful now 
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts, 
And with mute wonder and delighted awe 
Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought. 
On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail. 
From the green borders of the peopled earth. 
And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant ; 
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb 



75 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 

Dances in ether Hke the lightest leaf; 

To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 

Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons 

Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 

Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence 

I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, 

Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine 

Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 

From the proud regent of our scanty day ; 

Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 

And only less than Him who marks their track, 

And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, 

Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen 

Impels me onward through the glowing orbs 

Of habitable nature, far remote. 

To the dread confines of eternal night, 

To solitudes of waste unpeopled space, 

The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; 

Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 

Sleep in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops, 

And Thought, astonish'd, stops her bold career. 

But oh, thou mighty Mind! whose powerful word 

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were. 

Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd 

Invoke thy dread perfection? 

Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee? 

Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 

Support thy throne? Oh, look with pity down 

On erring, guilty man; not in thy names 

Of terror clad ; not with those thunders arm'd 

That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd 

The scatter'd tribes; thou hast a gentler voice, 

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, 

Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker! 



7G 



ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

But now my soul, iinus'd to stretch her powers 

In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, 

And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, 

Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, 

A mansion fair and spacious for its guests. 

And all replete with wonders. Let me here. 

Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time. 

And ripen for the skies : the hour will come 

When all these splendours bursting on my sight 

Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense 

Unlock the glories of the world unknoAvn. 



A PETITION. 



If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flowery meads. 
Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene. 
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene. 
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, 
And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware! 
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice. 
And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. 
If friendless in a vale of tears I stray. 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way. 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee ; 
With equal eye my various lot receive, 
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live; 
Prepar d to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
Wliile God is seen in all, and all in God. 



77 



Ail' I ■w""'i 






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la II 1 1 f,i 1 / < ""ilTl 




5±Z:.>S..:^fIiCll/^ 



HANNAH MORE. 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 



TWO PORTRAITS. 



Florio, a youth of gay renown, 
Who figur'd much about the town, 
Had pass'd, with general approbation, 
The modish forms of education ; 

78 



HANNAH MORE. 

» 

Knew what Avas proper to be known, 
Th' establish'd jargon of Bon-ton ; 
Had learnt, with very moderate reading, 
The whole new system of good breeding: 
He studied to be cold and rude, 
Though native feeling would intrude : 
Unlucky sense and sympathy 
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be. 
For Florio was not meant by nature, 
A silly or a worthless creature : 
He had a heart dispos'd to feel, 
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal; 
Was handsome, generous ; but, by fate, 
Predestin'd to a large estate! 
Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days 
"Was marr'd by pleasure, spoil'd by praise. 
The Destiny, who wove the thread 
Of Florio' s being, sigh'd, and said, 
" Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold. 
More than my shuttle well can hold. 
For which thy anxious fathers toU'd, 
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : 
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth 
From sense, simplicity, and truth ; 
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled. 
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, 
Wlien wholesome discipline's control 
Should brace the sinews of thy soul; 
Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize. 
For why should he that's rich be wise?" 
The gracious Master of mankind. 
Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind. 
In mercy, though in anger, said. 
That man should earn his daily bread; 
His lot inaction renders worse. 
While labour mitigates the curse ; 
The idle life's worst burdens bear, 
79 



FLORIO AND HIS FEIEND. 

And meet, what toil escapes, despair! 
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me, 
This mixture of mythology ; 
The Muse of Paradise has deign'd 
With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; 
And though the Bard that would attain 
The glories, Milton, of thy strain. 
Win never reach thy style or thoughts, 
He may be like thee — in thy faults ! 

Exhausted Florio, at the age 
When youth should rush on glory's stage. 
When life should open fresh and new, 
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; 
Of youthful gaiety bereft. 
Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left ; 
He found already to his cost, 
The shining gloss of life was lost ; 
And Pleasure was so coy a prude. 
She fled the more, the more pursued ; 
Or if o'ertaken and caress'd, 
He loath'd and left her when possess' d. 
But Florio knew the World ; that science 
Sets sense and learning at defiance ; 
He thought the World to him was known, 
Whereas he only knew the Town ; 
In men this blunder still you find, 
All think their little set — Mankind. 

Though high renown the youth had gain'd. 
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd. 
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion, 
But spoilt by Custom, and the Fashion. 
Though known among a certain set, 
He did not like to be in debt ; 
He shudder'd at the dicer's box. 
Nor thought it very heterodox 
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid, 
And bargains kept as well as made. 
80 



HANNAH MORE. 

His growing credit, as a sinner, 
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner ; 
Made pleasure and made business wait; 
And still, by system, came too late ; 
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication 
On which to found a reputation : 
Small habits, well pursued, betimes 
May reach the dignity of crimes ; 
And who a juster claim preferr'd 
Than one who always broke his word? 
His mornings were not spent in vice, 
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice ; 
Walk up and down St. James's Street, 
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet : 
He hated cards, detested drinking. 
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking; 
'Twas doing nothing was his curse, — 
Is there a vice can plague us worse ? 
The wretch who digs the mine for bread, 
Or ploughs, that others may be fed. 
Feels less fatigue than that decreed 
To him who cannot think, or read. 
Not all the peril of temptations. 
Not all tlie conflict of the passions, 
Can quench the spark of Glory's flame. 
Or quite extinguish Virtue's name. 
Like the true taste for genuine saunter, 
Like Sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter. 
The active fires that stir the breast 
Her poppies charm to fatal rest; 
They rule in short and quick succession, 
But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession : 
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd, 
Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd ; 
Intemperance, where there's no temptation. 
Makes voluntary abdication ; 
Of other tyrants short the strife, 
81 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

But Indolence is king for life: 
The despot twists, with soft control, 
Eternal fetters round the soul. 

Yet though so polish'd Florio's breeding, 
Think hira not ignorant of reading : 
For he, to keep him from the vapours, 
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers ; 
Was deep in poet's-corner wit; 
Knew what was in italics writ ; 
Explain' d fictitious names at will ; 
Each gutted syllable could fill. 
There oft, in paragraphs, his name 
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame ; 
Though yet they only serv'd to hint 
That Florio lov'd to see in print 
His ample buckles' alter'd shape, 
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape ; 
And many a standard phrase was his 
Might rival bore, or banish quiz. 
The man who grasps this young renown, 
And early starts for Fashion's crown. 
In time that glorious prize may wield, 
Which clubs and ev'n Newmai-ket yield. 

He studied while he dress'd, for, true 'tis, 
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties, 
Ahreges, Dictionnaires, Becueils, 
Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles : 
No work in substance now is follow'd, 
The chemic extract only's swallow' d. 
He lik'd those literary cooks 
Who skim the cream of others' books ; 
And ruin half an author's graces 
By plucking bon mots from their places. 
He wonders any writing sells 
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells. 
His palate works alone can touch 
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche. 
82 



HANNAH MORE. 

Some phrase that with the public took 
Was all he read of any book ; 
For plan, detail, arrangement, system, 
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. 
Of each new Play he saw a part, 
And all the anas had by heart : 
He found whatever they produce 
Is fit for conversation-use ; 
Learning so ready for display, 
A page' would prime him for a day: 
They cram not with a mass of knowledge. 
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college, 
^Vliich in the memory useless lies. 
Or only makes men — good and wise. 
This might have merit once, indeed. 
But now for other ends we read. 
A friend he had, Bellario hight, 
A reasoning, reading, learned wight ; 
At least, with men of Florio's breeding, 
He was a prodigy of reading. 
He knew each stale and vapid lie 
In tomes of French philosophy ; 
And these, we fairly may presume, 
From Pyrrho down to David Hume, 
'Twere difficult to single out 
A man more full of shallow doubt : 
He knew the little sceptic prattle, 
The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; 
Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance. 
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; 
Admir'd the system of Lucretius, 
^Vliose matchless verse makes^ nonsense specious ! 
To this his doctrine owes its merits, 
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits ; 
Though sceptics dull his schemes rehearse, 
Who have not souls to taste his verse. 
Bellario founds his reputation 
83 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

On dry, stale jokes about Creation ; 
Would prove, by argument circuitous. 
The combination was fortuitous. 
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, 
And prey on bigots who believe ; 
With bitter ridicule could jeer, 
And had the true free-thinking sneer. 
Grave arguments he had in store, 
Which had been answer'd o'er and o'er; 
And us'd, with wondrous penetration, 
The trite, old trick of false citation; 
From ancient authors fond to quote 
A phrase, or thought, they never wrote. 
Upon his highest shelf there stood 
The Classics, neatly cut in wood; 
And in a more commodious station. 
You found them in a French translation : 
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, 
But keeps the French — just for the notes. 
He worshipp'd certain modern names 
Who history write in epigrams, 
In pointed periods, shining phrases, 
And all the small poetic daisies 
Which crowd the pert and florid style, 
Wliere fact is dropt to raise a smile ; 
Wliere notes indecent or profane 
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain : 
Where all is spangle, glitter, show. 
And truth is overlaid below: 
Arts scorn' d by History's sober Muse, 
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use. 
Whate'er the subject of debate, 
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; 
Begin whatever theme you will, 
In unbelief he lands you still : 
The good, with shame I speak it, feel 
Not half this proselyting zeal: 
84 



HANNAH MORE. 

While cold their Master's cause to own, 

Content to go to heav'n alone, 

The infidel, in liberal trim, 

Would carry all the world with him ; 

Would trust his wife, friend, kindred, nation, 

Mankind — with what"? Annihilation. 

Though Flokio did not quite believe him. 
He thought, why should a friend deceive him? 
Much as he prized Bellario's wit, 
He lik'd not all his notions yet ; 
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd, 
But hop'd one might believe in God ; 
Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue, 
He knew not how to think him wrong. 
Though Florio tried a thousand ways, 
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze : 
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt 
If ever it go fairly out. 

Yet, under great Bellario's care, 
He gain'd each day a better air; 
With many a leader of renown, 
Deep in the learning of the Town, 
Who never other science knew, 
])Ut what from that prime source they drew ; 
Pleas'd, to the Opera they repair. 
To get recruits of knowledge there ; 
Mythology gain at a glance, 
And learn the Classics from a dance : 
In Ovid they ne'er car'd a groat 
How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut; 
Yet charm' d they see Medea rise 
On fiery dragons to the skies. 
For Dido, though they never knew heh 
As Maro's magic pencil drew her. 
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted, 
Her pious Vagabond departed. 
Yet, for DiDONE how they roar ! 
85 




And Cara ! Cara ! loud encore. 

One taste Bellario's soul possess'd, 
The master-passion of his breast ; 
It was not one of those frail joys, 
Which, by possession, quickly cloys ; 
This bliss was solid, constant, true, 
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too , 
For though the business might be finisli'd, 
86 



HANNAH MORE. 

The pleasure scarcely was dirainish'd ; 

Did he ride out, or sit, or walk, 

He liv'd it o'er again in talk ; 

Prolong'd the fugitive delight, 

In words by day, in dreams by night. 

'Twas eating did his soul allure, 

A deep, keen, modish Epicure ; 

Though once this name, as I opine, 

Meant not such men as live to dine ; 

Yet all our modern Wits assure us, 

That's all they know of Epicurus : 

They fondly fancy, that repletion 

Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian. 

To live in gardens full of flowers, 

And talk philosophy in bowers, 

Or, in the covert of a wood. 

To descant on the sovereign good, 

Might be the notion of their founder. 

But they have notions vastly sounder: 

Their bolder standards they erect. 

To form a more substantial sect; 

Old Epicurus would not own 'em, 

A Dinner is their summum bonwn; 

MoYQ like you'll find such sparks as these 

To Epicurus' deities ; 

Like them, they mix not with affairs, 

But loll and laugh at human cares. 

To beaux this difference is allow'd, 

They choose a sofa for a cloud. 

Bellario had embrac'd with glee 

This practical philosophy. 



87 



BOWLES. 
RETURN TO OXFORD. 

CHERWELL. 

Cherwei.l! how pleased along tliy willow'd edge 
Erewhile I stray'd ; or when the morn began 
To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan, 

Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge, 

And now, reclin'd upon thy banks once more, 
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay 
Whose music on my melancholy way 

I woo'd, beneath thy willows waving hoar. 

Seeking to rest — till the returning sun 

Of joy beam out, as when Heaven's humid bow 
Shines silent on the passing storm below ; 

Whate'er betide, yet something have I won 

Of solace, that may bear me on serene, 

Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinking scene. 



ON THE RHINE. 

'TwAS morn, and beautiful the mountains' brow, — 
Hung with the clusters of the bending vine — 
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine 

We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow 

In murmurs parting; varying as we go, 

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire, 
As some grey convent-wall, or sunlit spire 

Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow. 





Here castles, like the prisons of despair, 

Frown as we pass ! — There, on the vineyard's side, 
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide; 
While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, 
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day. 
Nor heeds how fost the prospect winds away. 

89 



THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. 



THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. 

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken 

Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men, — 

Of unhewn roots compos'd, and gnarled wood, 

A small and rustic Oratory stood : 

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross, 

The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss ; 

A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side — 

One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide ;. 

This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; 

And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. 

O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray. 

The clust'ring copu weav'd its trellis gay : 

Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove 

Their aged and fantastic arms above. 

In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, 

A dial counted the departing hours, 

On which the sweetest light of sinnmer shone, — 

A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone : — 

" To count, Avith passing shade, the hours, 
I plac'd the dial 'mid the flowers. 
That, one by one, came forth, and died. 
Blooming, and Avith'ring, round its side. 
IMortal, let the sight impart 
Its pensive moral to thy heart!" 

Just heard to trickle through a covert near, 
And soothing, vdth perpetual lapse, the ear, 
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the stone, — 
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. 
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, 
And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, 

90 



BOWLES. 

The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song 
Heedlessly murnuir'd all the summer long. 
And when the winter came, retir'd to rest. 
And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest, 
No sounds of a conflicting world were near ; 
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear, 
That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast. 
But dying sounds of passions that were past ; 
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire 
The lessening echoes of the distant choir. 

Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest, 
His pale hands meekly cross'd upon his breast, 
Anselmo sat: the sun, with west'ring ray. 
Just touch'd his temples, and his locks of grey. 
There was no worldly feeling in his eye ; — 
The world to him "was as a thing gone by." 

Now, all his features lit, he rais'd his look, 
Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book ; 
And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, 
A tame opossum lick'd his wither' d hand. 
That sweetest light of slow-declining day. 
Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray, 
Eesting a moment on his few grey hairs, 
Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his pray'rs. 

When the trump echo'd to the quiet spot. 
He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not ; 
Enough if his meek wdsdom could control. 
And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul ; 
Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod, 
He led one erring Indian to his God. 



91 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 



Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, 

The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, 

Chief of the mountain tribes : high, overhead, 

The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, 

Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires. 

And Chillan trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring fires. 

A glen beneath — a lonely spot of rest — 

Hung, scarce discover' d, like an eagle's nest. 

Summer was in its prime ; — the parrot-flocks 

Darken' d the passing sunshine on the rocks -, 

The chrysomel and purple butterfly. 

Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ; 

The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs. 

With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs, 

The woodpecker is heard with busy bill. 

The mock -bird sings — and all beside is still. 

And look ! the cataract, that bursts so high 

As not to mar the deep tranquillity. 

The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, 

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; 

Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews, 

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. 

Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, 
And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, 
Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine. 
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine. 
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe. 
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. 
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white, 
The sunshine darts its interrupted light, 

92 



BOWLES. 

And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illumes, 

With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. 

80 smiles the scene; — but can its smiles impart 

Aught to console yon mourning warrior's hearts 

He heeds not now, when, beautifully bright. 

The humming-bird is circling in his sight; 

Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still, 

Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill; 

But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, 

Rock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd 

To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high 

Grey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless, sky, 

He cries, " Oh ! if thy spirit yet be fled 

To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead, — 

In yonder track of purest light above, 

Dear, long-lost object of a father's love, * 

Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come, 

Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home, 

And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam 

Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream? 

Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard, 

In the sad notes of that melodious bird, 

Which, as we listen with mysterious dread, 

Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead? 

Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away, 
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day ; 
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain 
A weary life of servitude and pain. 
With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam. 
And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream, 
Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, 
Or weep upon thy father's distant grave." 



Ye, who have wak'd, and listen'd with a tear. 
When cries confus'd, and clangours roll'd more near ; 
With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, 

93 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

As War's black trump peal'd its terrific blast, 

And o'er the wither'd earth the armed giant pass'd. 

Ye, who his track with terror have pursued, 

"When some delightful land, all blood-imbued. 

He swept ; where silent is the champaign wide, 

That echo'd to the pipe of yester-tide. 

Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong 

The last deep echoes of his parting gong; 

Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot 

Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot, 

Save livid corses that unburied lie, 

And conflagrations, reeking to the sky; 

Come listen, whilst the causes I relate 

That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate. 

And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate. 

In other days, when, in his manly pride, 
Two children for a father's fondness vied, — 
Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield 
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield. 
Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade. 
Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd. 
Brother and sister : She, along the dew, 
Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew ; 
Blue rushes wreath'd her head ; her dark brown hair 
Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare ; 
Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, 
That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. 
Light was her form ; a clasp of silver brac'd 
The azure-dyed ichella round her waist ; 
Her ancles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd, 
She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind. 
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, — 
So, beautiful in j^outh, she bounded by. 

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, — 
The tame alpaca stood and lick'd her hand ; 
She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck 
With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck, 

94 







Whilst he with silent gratitude replies, 
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. 

These children danc'd together in the shade, 
Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade ; 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, 

The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree ; 

Or through the forest's wildest solitude, 

From glen to glen the marmozet pursued ; 

And thought the light of parting day too short, 

That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport. 

In that fair season of awak'ning life. 
When dawning youth and childhood are at strife ; 
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands 
Tip-toe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands ; 
With airy look, and form and footsteps light, 
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright, 
And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray 
Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away ; 
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, 
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung. 
With slender lance, and feathers blue and red. 
That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head, — 
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, 
Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy : 
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, 
Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow ; 
Startled the condor on the craggy height ; 
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight. 
Lessening in ether to a speck of white. 

But when th' impassioned Chieftain spoke of war, 
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar, — 
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main, 
And the proud banners of insulting Spain, — 
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke, 
And his red gods, that, wrapp'd in rolling smoke, 
Roar'd from the guns, — the Boy, with still-drawn breath, 
Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death; 
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried, 

"O! LET ME PERISH BY MY FATHER'S SIDE !" 



96 




LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH. 



As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, 
Much musing on the track of terror past, 
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast — 
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide 
That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam 
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement 
Of yon forsaken tower that Time has rent ; 
The lifted oar far off with transient gleam 
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep, 

97 o 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 

O'er-spent ; oh ! when on wakeful Memory's breast 
Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest? 
Then some sweet harmonies might soothe her sleep, 
Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre. 
Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire. 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 



The Indian, sad and still, 
Pac'd on from wood to vale, from vale to hill ; 
Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd aAvhile to rest, 
Smil'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast ; 
The pensive mother grey Anselmo led : 
Behind, Lautaro bore his Father dead. 

Beneath the branching palms they slept at night ; 
The small bn-ds wak'd them ere the morning light. 
Before their path, in distant view, appear'd 
The mountain-smoke, that its dark column rear'd 
O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky, 
Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. 
FoTir days they onward led their eastern way : 
On the fifth rising morn before them lay 
Chillan's lone glen, amid whose Avindings green 
The Warrior's lov'd and last abode was seen. 
No smoke went up, — stillness was all around, 
Save where the Avaters fell with soothing sound, 
Save where the Thenca sung so loud and clear, 
And the bright humming-bird was spinning near- 

98 



BOWLES. 

Yet liere all human tumults seem'd to cease, 
And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ; 
The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green 
As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene, — 
And in his ear the foiling water's spray 
Seem'd swelling Avith the sounds of yesterday. — 

""WHiere yonder rock the aged cedars shade, 
There shall my father's bones in peace be laid." 

Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the ground ; 
The small and sad communion gather' d round. 
Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, 
And broke the spear, and cried, " P^arewell ! — farcAvell !' 
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd " Adieu !" 
As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw. 
The little child, that to its mother clung, 
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, 
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound. 
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. 
The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild, 
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child, 
Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze, 
Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days. 
When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland, 
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand ! 

And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd. 
The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign' d 
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, 
" Eternam pacem dona, Domine." 
Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book. 
And lifting in the beam his lighted look, 
(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) — 
" Here, too," he cried, " my bones in peace shall rest ! 
Few years remain to me, and never more 
Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore ! 

99 



SUNRISE. 

Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave 
O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. 
Then may it — (when the sons of future days 
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze) — 
Then may it teach, that charity should bind, 
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! 
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear 
Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaught'ring spear. 



SUNRISE. 



Tis dawn : — the distant Andes' rocky spires, 
One after one, have caught the orient fires. 
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight, 
His wings are touch'd with momentary light. 
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads 
A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads, 
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below, 
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow. 
Till all the living landscape is display'd 
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade ; 
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain, 
Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main. 
The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew; 
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew ; 

100 




And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride, 

The tall flamingo, by the river's side, — 

Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd, 

With snowy neck superb, and legs of length'ning shade. 



101 



KOGERS. 



THE OLD HOUSE. 



Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees. 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. 
The mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleas' d, for life itself was new. 
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew. 

See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd. 
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest — 
Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest ! 

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call 1 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! 
That hall, where once in antiquated state. 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree, 
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest, 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound ; 
And turn'd the blind-fold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, Ave form'd our fairy ring ; 
And Fancy fl utter' d on her wildest wing. 

102 




Giants and genii claim'd each wondering ear; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, 
Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood ; 

103 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

Oft, fancy led, at niidnighfs fearful hour 

With startling step we scal'd the lonely tower ; 

O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 

Murder' d by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. 

Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 

The storied arras, source of fond delight, 

With old achievements charms the wilder'd sight ; 

And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, 

On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. 

The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. 

The clock still points its moral to the heart. 

That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. 

When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near ; 

And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 

Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time? 

The massive beam, with curious carving wrought, 

Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought ; 

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 

Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust ; 

Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 

Starting to life — all whisper of the Past! 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

The day arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd : 
The child is born, by many a pang endear'd : 
And now, the Mother's ear has caught his cry ! 
Oh ! grant the cherub to her asking eye. 
He comes ! — she clasps him ! To her bosom prest, 
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows ; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
lO-t 



V 

ROGERS. 

As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
lie walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
AVhen rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,) 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
And, cheek to cheek, her lidlmg song she suigs. 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
And, if she can, exliaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands her care, 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
Tellmg of Him who sees in secret there : 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written thought 
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, 
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. 
Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
Oh, he would follow — follow through the sky ! 
Climbs the gaunt mastifl" slumbering in his chain. 
And chides and buffets, clinging by tlie mane ; 
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountam-side. 
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can. 
If now he wears the habit of a man. 
Flings off' the coat so much his pride and pleasure, 
And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies, 
And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight. 
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. 



105 



AMELIA OPIE. 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 



Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless Orphan's tale : 
Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake ; 

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 
Yet I was once a mother's pride. 

And my brave father's hope and joy; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died — 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I, 

When news of Nelson's victory came. 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

And see the lighted windows flame ! 
To force me home my mother sought, 

She could not bear to see my joy; 
For with my father's life 'twas bought, 

And made me a poor orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud, — 

My mother, shndd'ring, closed her ears ; 
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd, — 

My mother answer'd with her tears. 
" Why are you crying thus," said I, 

"While others laugh and shout with joyf 
She kiss'd me — and, with such a sigh! 

She call'd me her poor oi-phan boy. 
lOG 




" What is an orphan boy "?" I cried, 

As in her face I look'd and smiled ; 
My mother through her tears replied, 

"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!" 
And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, 

And I'm no more a parent's joy, — 
O Lady,— I have learnt too well 

What 'tis to be an orphan boy. 
107 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 

Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! — 

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, — 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep! — ha! — this to me"? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 

Your happy, happy orphan boy. 



WHiLIAM SPENCER 
TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime, 
Unheeded flew the hours ; 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks 

That dazzle as they pass ! 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

Wlien birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage for its wings'? 



108 



SPENCER. 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented 
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends). 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 

And slipped in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. 

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
For justice divine could not compass its ends; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 

For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, 
The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills which are never protested. 

When dra■\\^l on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. 

Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers, 
The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends. 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 

How bless'd Avas his home with — wife, children, and friends 

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 

Wliom duty to far-distant latitudes sends, 
With transport would barter old ages of glory 

For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover. 
Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends. 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 

The bower where he sat with — wife, children, and friends. 

109 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, 

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow 

No warmth from the smile of^ — wife, children, and friends. 

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends ; 

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. 
Bedewed with the tears of — wife, children, and friends. 

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. 

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends; 
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour 

The glass which I fill to — wife, children, and friends. 



110 



BYRON. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



My hair is grey, but not with years ; 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night. 
As men's have gro^v^l from sucklen fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not Avitli toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufFer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied : 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
Ill 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; — 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain. 
With marks that will not wear away. 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and hea\'y score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus, together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each. 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
112 




But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 
113 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the eklest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did — my best; 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr d to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank ; 
114 



BYRON. 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 



Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, — 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd. 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that Avould have set me free. 



I said my nearer brother pin'd, 
I said his mighty heart declin'd ; 
He loath'd and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
115 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; — 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart, or limb. 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth ? — He died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain. 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle jjrayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love. 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument! 



But he, the favourite and the flower. 
Most cherish' d since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face, 
IIG 



BYRON. 

The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He too, who yet had held, untir'd, 
A spirit natural or inspir'd, 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
"Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious Avith its dread : 
But these were horrors — this was woe 
TJnmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
He faded, and so calm and meek. 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And griev'd for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 
And not a word of murmur — not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope — my ovvti to raise. 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
117 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen' d, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him: I found him not; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only liv'd — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceas'd to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die ; 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



What next befel me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew; 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
118 



BYRON. 

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey: 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
k50 hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness — without a place 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceas'd, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate, 
119 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought! — the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile, 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew. 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud ; 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a summer day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A f^o^vn upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate. 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so. 
They were inur'd to sights of woe. 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart. 
And tread it over every part ; 
120 



BYRON. 

And round the pillars one by one, 
Eeturning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profan'd their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick. 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 



I made a footing in the wall. 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire— no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery. 
I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high. 
The quiet of a loving eye. 



I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high— their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there Avas a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile, 
121 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
But in it there were three tall trees. 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly; 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



It might be months, or years, or days, — 

I kept no count — I took no note ; 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; — 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where : 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus, when they appear' d at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
122 



BYRON. 

A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnam'd 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world. 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toUs, 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 

123 



THE DEEAM. 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what Ave were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow"? What are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms that can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath. 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but' one beloved face on earth, 

124 




And that was shining on him : he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words : she was his sight, 
125 



THE DREAM. 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw Avith hers, 

Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceas'd 

To live within himself; she was his lite, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all ; upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share: 

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-horiour'd race. It was a name 

Which pleas'd him, and yet pleas' d him not — and why ? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another ; even noiv she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood. 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paus'd, 

126 



BYRON. 

The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him belov'd, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Retir'd, but not as bidding her adieu, 

For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And, mounting on his steed, he went his way ; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had surviv'd the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 

127 



THE DREAM. 

So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife. 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be '? — She had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 

Or ill-repress' d affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be? She had loved him not, 

Not given him cause to deem himself beloved. 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced— and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

128 



BYRON. 

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — 

All things pertaining to that place and hour,. 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time? 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed. 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceiv'd 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore ; 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

129 



THE DREAM. 

In all which was serv'd up to him, until, 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries. 

To him the book of Night was open'd wdde, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret. Be it so. 



My dream was past ; it had no farther change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



130 




SHELLEY. 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 



The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright. 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 



131 



WRITTEN m DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 

The purple noon's transparent light. 
The breath of the moist earth is light 

Around its unexpandecl buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 
The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. 

I see the deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-w^eeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown. 
I sit upon the sands alone. 

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measur d motion. 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within, nor calm around, 
Nor that content, surpassing wealth. 

The sage in meditation found, 
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 

And weep away the life of care 
Wliich I have boi'ne, and yet must bear, 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me. 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
132 



SHELLEY. 

Some miglit lament that I was cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan: — 
They might lament, — for I am one 

Whom men love not — and yet regret; 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set. 
Will linger, though enjoy' d, like joy in memory yet. 



TO NIGHT. 



SwiFTi.Y walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the Dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
133 



TO NIGHT. 

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 
I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmiu-'d like a noon-tide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? And I replied. 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead. 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled: 
Of neither would I ask the boon, 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, — soon ! 



SPRING. 



O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, 
White-wing'd emblem! brightest, best, and fairest! 
Whence comest thou, when with dark Winter's sadness 
The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest ? 
Sister of joy ! thou art the child who wearest 
'J'hy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; 
I'hy mother Autumn, lor whose grave thou bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet 
Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet. 




\ * '^/f K^^^^«: 



KEATS. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



My heart achcp, and a drowsy numbness pains 
' My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
135 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Sinsest of summer in full-throated ease. 



O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Plippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ! 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, 
And leaden-eyed, despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
136 



KEATS. 

Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays : 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
ANHiite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

1 liave been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thovi sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear tliis passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
137 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. 
She stood hi tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm' d magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Pled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 




138 




COLEEIDGE. 

LOVE. 

Alt. thoughts, all passions, all delight^. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
139 



LOVE. 

All are but ministers of Love, ' 

And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listen' d to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 

My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 
140 



COLERIDGE. 

I told her how he pined : and, ah ! 
The low, the deep, the pleading tone. 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
With doAvncast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came, and look'd him in the face, 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land; 

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees. 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a caA^e ; 
And how his madness went away 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 
141 



LOVE. 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng ; 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherish'd long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And, like the murmur of a dream, 
1 heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside ; 
As conscious of my look, she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked up 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'tAvas a bashful art 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears ; and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous Bride! 
H-2 




WORDSWORTH. 



THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION. 



The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, 
On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
The silent hours ; and who to that report 
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
Throughout a long and lonely summer's day. 
His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
With less intelligence for moral things 
Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
Which to the sun of truth he can apply. 
That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 
Experience daily fixing his regards 
143 



A CLOUD PICTURE. 

On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are, 

And where they lie, how answer'd and appeas'd: 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard ; on this rock 

Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life. 

Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind. 

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 

And trivial ostentation — ^is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and nature, girded by a zone 

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top. 

Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred 

(Take from him what you will upon the score 

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 

For noble purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 



A CLOUD PICTURE. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd 
Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view 
Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! 
Th' appearance, instantaneously disclos'd, 

144 



WORDSWORTH. 

Was of a mighty city — boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 

Far sinking into splendour — without end! 

Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, 

With alabaster domes and silver spires, 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted : here, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of all gems! 

By earthly nature had th' effect been Avrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapours had receded, taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! — 

Clouds, mists, streams, Avatery rocks, and emerald turf. 

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 

Confus'd, commingled, mutually inflam'd, 

Molten together, and composing thus, 

Each lost in each, that marvellous array 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure Avithout name, 

In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapp'd. 

Right in the midst, where interspace appear'd 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Under a shining canopy of state 

Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances Avere seen 

To implements of ordinary use, 

But vast in size, in^ substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets Avere beheld 

In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious aAve. 

This little Vale, a dAvelling-place of Man, 

Lay loAv beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 

145 1 



DION. 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That which I saw was the reveal'd abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart 

Swell'd in my breast. — "1 have been dead," I cried, 

"And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?" 

And with that pang I pray'd to be no more! 



DION. 



fSEE PLUTARCH.) 



Serene, and fitted to embrace. 
Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace 
Of haughtiness without pretence, 
And to unfold a still magnificence, 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pui-e homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, not too elate 

With self-sufficing solitude, 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 
Might in the universal bosom reign. 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 

Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day! 
Each crown'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield, 
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield. 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

14G 



WORDSWORTH. 

Who leads them on ? The anxious people see 

Long-exiled Dion mai'ching at their head ; 

He also crown'd with flowers of Sicil}', 

And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad ! 

Pure transport, undisturb'd by doubt or fear, 

The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain, 

Salute those strangers as a holy train. 

Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear). 

That brought their precious liberty again. 

Lo ! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand, 

Do\\T[i the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine 

In seemly order stand, 
On tables set, as if for rites divine; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless f)rodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were ! 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! — and mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause. 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, 
Intent to trace th' ideal path of right 

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight ; 
But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars ; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
With aught that breathes th' ethereal element. 
Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood 
Unjustly shed, though for the 'public good. 

147 



DION. 

"Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 

And oft his cogitations sink as low 

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 

The heaviest plummet of despair can go — 

But whence that sudden check'? that fearful start? 

He hears an uncouth sound — 

Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! 

A woman's garb the phantom wore. 

And swiftly swept the marble floor — 

Like Auster Avhirling to and fro, 

His force on Caspian foam to try; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Mtenalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! 

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping. 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd, 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
No pause admitted, no design avow'd ! 
"Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!" 
Exclaim'd the Chieftain — "let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" 

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, 

148 



WORDSWORTH. 

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement 

Obeys a mystical intent ! 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should She labour night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear ; 
Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
Which no philosophy can brook ! 

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 

Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 

O matchless perfidy! portentous lust 

Of monstrous crime ! that horror-striking blade. 

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 

Shudder'd the walls — the marble city wept — 

And sylvan places heav'd a pensive sigh ; 

But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. 

As he had fall'n in magnanimity ; 

Of spirit too capacious to require 

That Destiny her course should change ; too just 

To his own native greatness to desire 

That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Releas'd from life, and cares of princely state. 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate : — 

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends. 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. 

Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 



149 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 



In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a convent-tower, 
A harp that tvmeful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell. 

Was fit for some gay throng; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
WTien silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seem'd doubly dear. 
Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 

Had fall'n upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave 

Cloth'd with innocuous fire ; 
But, where we stood, the setting sun 

Show'd little of his state; 
And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly borne, 
If even a passing Stranger sighs 

VoY them who do not mourn. 
150 




Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 

Oh! what is beauty, what is love. 
And opening life to thee? 



Such feeling press'd upon the soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side : 
Less tribute could she pay than this. 

Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty? 
151 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 



IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE. 



Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 

Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, 
Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine, 

And all his majesty — 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. 

The Mother — her thou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An image, too, of that sweet Boy 

Thy inspirations give — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far. 

How beautiful his eyes. 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguil'd ; 

Uncounted months are gone, 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 
152 



WORDSWORTH. 

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 

The smooth transparent skiu, 
Refin'd, as with intent to show 

The holmess Avithin ; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

By blushes yet untam'd ; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee, 

Nor of her arms asham'd. 

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side; 
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride ; 
Such beauty hath th' Eternal pourd 

Upon them not forlorn, 
Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, 

Nor yet redeem'd from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and Avrong, 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

P>om Hebrew fountains sprung; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past. 

And proud Jerusalem! 



153 



A PORTRAIT. 



A PORTRAIT. 



She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight too her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



154 



WORDSWORTH. 



LUCY. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
That wild Avith glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm. 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

The Floating Clouds their state .shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

The Stars of Midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where Kivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty boi^n of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 
15.5 



SONNET. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom sv^^ell ; 
Such thoughts to I>ucy I will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy Dell." 

Thus Nature spoke. — The work was done- 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



SONNET 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1S03. 

Earth has not any thing to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now dotli like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour valley, rock or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. 
The river giideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



]5G 



LAMB. 



HESTER.— A REMEMBRANCE. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead. 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flush'd her spirit — 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
WHiich doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
Nature had blest her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
Ye could not Hester. 

157 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarning? 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light. 

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, 

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, 
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair. 
Have written " strange defeature" there. 

And Time, with heaviest hand of all. 
Like that fierce writing on the wall, 
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. 

And Error, gilding worse designs, 
Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
Betrays his path by crooked lines. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. 
Go — shut the leaves — and clasp the book ! 
158 



KIRKE WHITE. 



THE HERB ROSEMARY. 



Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 

On January's front severe, 

And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy Avaste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be, and long, 

The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 

Come, press my lips, and lie with me 

Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 

And not a care shall dare intrude, 

To break the marble solitude. 
So peaceful, and so deep. 

And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest-trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem Avild is mine, 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
159 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Wliere as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

CojrE, Disappointment, come ! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine- 
Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation, in her cell. 
Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here ! 

What is this passing scene? 

A peevish April day! 
A little sun, a little rain. 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

160 



KIRKE WHITE. 

Oh, what is Beauty's jjower? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies? 
Mute, mute is ail 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 

The most belov'd on earth 

Not long survives to-day; 
So music past is obsolete. 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet. 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 

Then, since this world is vain, 

And volatile, and fleet, 
Wliy should I lay up earthly joys 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Wliy fly from ill 
With cautious skill. 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 

Come, Disappointment, come I 
Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run ; 
I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done! 



161 



ALLSTON. 
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 



All hail! tliou noble land, 
Our Fathers' native soil! 
O, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil, 
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore! 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The world o'er ! 

The Genius of our clime. 

From his pine-embattled steep, 
Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
Then let the world combine, — 
O'er the main our naval line 
Like the milky-way shall shine 
Bright in fame! 

Though ages long have past 

Since our Fathers left their home, 
Their pilot in the blast. 

O'er untravelled seas to roam. 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains? 

162 



ALLSTON. 

While the language free and bold 
Which the Bard of Avon sung, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rung 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ; — 
While this, with reverence meet, 
Ten thousand echoes greet, 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; — 

While the manners, while the arts, 

That mould a nation's soul. 
Still cling around our hearts, — 
Between let Ocean roll. 
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun 
Yet still from either beach 
The voice of blood shall reach. 
More audible than speech, 
"We are One." 



ROSALIE. 



" POUR upon my soul again 
That sad, unearthly strain, 

That seems from other worlds to plain 

Thus falling, falling from afar. 

As if some melancholy star 

Had mingled with her light her sighs, 
And dropped them from the skies ! 

"No, — never came from aught below 
This melody of woe. 
That makes my heart to overflow, 
163 



A FRAGMENT. 

As from a thousand gushing springs, 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless light, — if light it be, — 
That veils the world I see. 

" P'or all I see around me wears 
The hue of other spheres; 
And something blent of smiles and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath 
Can mould a sadness like to this, — 
So like angelic bliss." 

So, at that dreamy hour of day 
When the last lingering ray 

Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 

So thought the gentle Kosalie, 

As on her maiden reverie 

First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Wise is the face of Nature unto him 
Whose heart, amid the business and the cares, 
The cunning and bad passions, of the world, 
Still keeps its freshness, and can look upon her 
As when she breathed upon his schoolboy face 
Her morning breath, from o'er the dewy beds 
Of infant violets waking to the sun ; — 
When the young spirit, only recipient. 
So drank in her beauties, that his heart 
Would reel within him, joining jubilant 
The dance of brooks and waving woods and flower? 
IG-i 




DANA. 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 



Husband and wife ! No converse now ye hold, 
As once ye did in your young days of love, 

165 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 

On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays, 

Its silent meditations, its glad hopes, 

Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; 

Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 

F'uU, certain, and possess'd. Domestic cares 

Call you not now together. Earnest talk 

On what your children may be, moves you not. 

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; 

'Tis not like that in which ye rested once 

Most happy — silence eloquent, when heart 

With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames, 

Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 

Touch'd the soft notes of love. 

Stillness profound, 
Insensible, unheeding, folds you round ; 
And darkness, as a stone, has seal'd you in. 
Away from all the living, here ye rest : 
In all the nearness of the narrow tomb, 
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now. 
Dread fellowship ! together, yet alone. 

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love"? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, 
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb? 
Dwellers in darkness, who th' illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? 
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, reveal'd 
In glory? throne, before Avhich even now 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
Kejoicing, yet at their own natures awed? 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, 

166 



DANA. 

Thou awful, unseen presence — are they quenched, 
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not, as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars'? 

And with our frames do perish all our loves'? 
Do those that took their root and put forth buds, 
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty. 
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? 
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, 
And make it send forth winning harmonies. 
That to the cheek do give its living glow. 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 
With that for which there is no utterance — 
Are these the body's accidents? no more? 
To live in it, and when that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame? 

Oh, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
" Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. 
The tall, dark moimtains, and the deep-toned seas 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
Oh, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
'Tis floating midst day's setting glories; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 

167 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver vv'itli joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Why is it that I linger round this tomb? 
What holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. 
They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes. 
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell 
In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love, 
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
For full communion ; nor sensations strong, 
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each, 
By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. 
Each quick'ning sense, each throb of holy love. 
Affections sanctified, and the full glow 
Of being, which expand and gladden one, 
By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
In both immortal frames : Sensation all, 
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! 
Ye pair'd, yet one ! vn-apped in a consciousness 
Twofold, yet single — this is love, this life ! 

Why call we, then, the square-built monument, 
The upright column, and the low-laid slab, 
Tokens of death, memorials of decay? 
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man. 
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou see'st, 
In these shaped stones and letter'd tables, figures 
Of life : More are they to thy soul than those 
Which he Avho talk'd on Sinai's mount with God 
Brought to the old Judeans — types are these, 
Of thine eternitv- 



DANA. 

I thank thee, Father, 
That at this simple grave, on which the dawn 
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind 
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
From this green hillock, Avhither I had come 
In sorrow. Thou art leading me in joy. 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 



Ye daisies gay, 

Tliis fresh spring day 
Close gathered here together, 

To play in the light. 

To sleep all the niglit. 
To abide through the sullen weather ; 

Ye creatures bland, 

A simple band, 
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure. 

And linked when your forms 

Stoop low in the storms, 
And the rain comes down Avithout measure ; 

When wild clouds fly 

Athwart the sky. 
And ghostly shadows, glancing, 

Ai*e darkening the gleam 

Of the hurrying stream, 
And your close, bright heads gayly dancing; 
169 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 

Though dull awhile, 

Again ye smile ; 
For, see, the warm sun breaking; 

The stream's going glad, 

There's nothing now sad. 
And the small bird his song is waking. 

The dew-drop sip 

With dainty lip ! 
The svm is low descended. 

And, Moon! softly fall 

On troop true and small ! 
Sky and earth in one kindly blended. 

And, Morning! spread 

Their jewelled bed 
With lights in the east sky springing! 

And, Brook! breathe around 

Thy low murmured sound! 
May they move, ye Birds, to your singing! 

For in their play 

I hear them say, 
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow ; 

In heart be a chUd, 

In word, true and mild: 
Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow. 



170 



WOODWORTH. 
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart ai'e the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew : 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it. 

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often, at noon, when returned from tlie field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth ovei'flowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 

As, pois'd on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though fiU'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in his well. 

171 





SCOTT. 

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; 
172 



SCOTT. 

The westland wind is husht and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those sweet hnes that once it bore ; 

Though Evening, ^^■ith her richest dye, 
Flames o'er the hills ot" Ettrick shore. 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree — 
Are they still sweet as once they were. 

Or is the dreary change in me? 

Alas ! the warp'd and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye '? 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply? 
To aching eyes each landscape lours. 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; 
And Araby, or Eden's bowers, 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



173 







MARMION— DYING. 



They parted, and alone he lay ; 

Clare drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. 
And half he murmur'd, — " Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nurst. 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring. 

To slake my dying thirst?" 
174 



SCOTT. 

O Woman ! in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 

And variable as the shade 

By the light quivering aspen made ; 

When pam and anguish wi'ing the brow, 

A ministering angel thou ! — ■ 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 

When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the ftigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears — 
The plaintive voice alone she hears. 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side. 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountains wide. 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn? behold her mark 

A little fountain cell. 
Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 

Driuk . mm\\ . ]iilgrim . kink . nnii . |irni{ 

.for . tjii^ . kin^ . snnl . nf . Iijhil . dprrij . 

W^i . liuilt . tjiis , mm . ml . iubII . 

She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A Monk supporting Marmion's head — 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought. 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 



17; 




THE BURNING OF ROKEBY. 



Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold, 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd — 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smoth'ring and blindfold grows the fight 
But soon shall dsiwn a dismal light ! 
176 



SCOTT. 

'Mid cries, and clasliing arms, there came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on lire ! 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand. 
Or frantic Jiertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defin'd 
On the fair hemisphere reclin'd, 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrasure. 
Now, swath'd within the sweeping cloud. 
Seems giant spectre in his shroud ; 
Till, from each loophole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shmes ruddy bright. 
And, gathering to united glare, 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and Avide 
That waken'd Greta's slumbering f^ide. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long 
And pendant arch, the fire flash'd strong, 
Snatching Avhatever could maintain, 
Raise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
Startling, Avith closer cause of dread, 
The females Avho the conflict fled. 
And now rush'd forth upon the plain. 
Filling the air with clamours vain. 

But ceas'd not yet, the Hall within, 

The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din. 

Till bursting lattices give proof 

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 

What ! wait they till its beams amain 

Crash on the slayers and the slain ? 

Th' alarm is caught — the drawbridge falls — 

The warriors hurry from the walls ; 

177 M 



THE BURNING OF ROKEBY. 

But, by the conflagration's light, 
Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
Each straggling felon clown was hew'd. 
Not one could gain the shelt'ring wood ; 
But forth th' affrighted harper sprung. 
And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 
Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

And where is Bertram? — Soaring higli, 
The general flame ascends the sky; 
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
When, like infernal demon, sent 
Red from his penal element. 
To plague and to pollute the air — 
His face all gore, on fire his hair — 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
His brandish'd sword on high he rears. 
Then plung'd among opposing spears; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss' d, 
Receiv'd and foil'd three lances' thrust; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood, 
• Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood 
In vaua his foes around him clung; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull at bay 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way. 
Through forty foes his path he made. 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er. 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
178 



SCOTT. 

Had in the fatal Hall been left. 
Deserted there by all his train ; — 
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again. 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown, 
And then his mantle's clasp undid ; 
Matilda held his drooping head. 
Till, given to breathe the freer air. 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
"I could have wish'd even thus to die!" 
No more he said — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed ; 
The ready palfreys stood array'd, 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid ; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda look'd behind, 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread. 
The clouded heaven lower'd bloody red ; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appcar'd to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
Each rushing down with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announc'd its triumph in its close, 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er. 
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more ! 



179 



CAMPBELL. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower d, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of" straw^, 
By the Avolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 

Till Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversal so oft 

In life's morning march, Avhen my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

"Stay — stay with us! — rest! thou art w^eary and worn !"- 
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;) 

But sorrow return'd with the dawTiing of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! 
180 



CAMPBELL. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 



There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
The clew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 

For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 

But the day-star atti'acted his eye's sad devotion ; 

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. 

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger: 
" The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, 

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,- 
A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hour. 

Or cover my harp with the Avild-woven flowers. 
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. 

" Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken. 
In di'eams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 

But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken. 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! 

Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

" Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that look'd On my childhood'? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 
181 




Ah! my sad heart! long abandon' d by pleasure! 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 



"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, 
Land of my forefothers ! Erin-go-bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, - 
' Erin mavournin, — Erin-go-bragh !' " 
182 



CAMPBELL. 



DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. 



Sweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm 

And flowery gardens mine, 
Thy waters I would shade with elm, 

To prop the tender vine. 
My golden flagons I would fill 
With rosy draughts from every hill ; 

And, under each green spreading bower. 
My gay companions should prolong 
The feast, the revel, and the song. 

To many an idle sportive hour. 

Like rivers crimson'd by the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our balmy cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight ; 
No care should touch the mellow heart, 
And sad or sober none depart ; 

(For wine can triumph over woe ;) 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers 

A Paradise below? 



183 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



LOGHIEL'S WARNING. 



WIZARD. 



LocHiEL, Lochiel, beware of the day, 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle-array ! 
For a 'field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight : 
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown, — 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain. 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war. 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning — no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ; 
Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, ai'ound thy old wavering sight. 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth. 
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the North ? 

J81 



CAMPBELL. 

Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad : 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the bhist 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire-show'r of Ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
O crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to bla;st and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan : 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymoi'e indignantly draws! 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 



— Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the bloodhounds that bai'k for thy fugitive king. 

18.5 



LOCHIEL'S WAENING. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 

Behokl, where he flies on his desolate path! 

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight — . 

Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! . . . . 

. . . 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors 

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCHIEL. 

— Down, soothless in suiter ! I trust not the tale ; 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, 

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



186 



CAMPBELL. 



HOHENLINDEN. 



On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

187 



HOHENLINDEN. 




The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Wlio rnsli to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! 
And charge Math all thy chivalry ! 

188 



CAMPBELL. 



Few, few shall part, where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

Wlien to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And "her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand. 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. — 

But the might of England flush'd 
To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rush'd 
O'er the deadly space between. 

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun 
189 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. — 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 

Then ceas'd — and all is wail. 

As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. — 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : ' 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

ISo peace instead of death let us bring: 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 

With the crews, at England's feet. 

And make submission meet 

To our King." — 

Then Denmark blest our chief 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As Death withdrew his shades from the day 

WTiile the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight. 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. — 

Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
190 



CAMPBELL. 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

"Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep. 

Full many a fathom dedp. 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! — 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died, 

With the gallant, good Riou ; — 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their gi-ave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave! 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



Ye Mariners of England ! 
That guard our native seas ; 
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again, 
To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep. 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
Wliile the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 
191 




The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean Avas their grave: 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 
192 



CAMPBELL. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is on the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



193 



WILDE. 

STANZAS. 

Mr life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scatter'd on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ei'e that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me! 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's de^rt strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat. 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



194 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

The sun, in summer majesty on high, 

Darted his fierce effulgence down the sky ; 

Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays, 

His orb expanded through a dreary haze, 

And, circled Avith a red portentous zone, 

He look'd in sickly horror from his throne : 

When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade, 

Thence to his home our father we convey' d. 

And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves, 

On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. 

Here, though his sufferings through the glen were kno^n, 

We chose to watch his dying-bed alone, 

Eve, Seth, and I. — In vain he sigh'd for rest, 

And oft his meek complainings thus express'd : 

" Blow on me. Wind ! I faint with heat ! O bring 

Delicious water from the deepest spring; 

Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse. 

Ye Cedars ! wash me cold with midnight dews ; 

Cheer me, my friends ! with looks of kindness cheer ; 

Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear ; 

These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom — 

This silence is the silence of the tomb." 

The sun went down, amidst an angry glare 
Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air ; 
The winds brake loose ; the forest-boughs were torn, 
And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne ; 

195 



THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

Cattle to shelter scudded in fifFright ; 

The florid Evening vanish'd into night ; 

Then burst the hurricane upon the vale, 

In peals of thunder, and thick-voUey'd hail ; 

Prone rushing rains with torrents whelm'd the land ; 

Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand ; 

Around its base, the foamy-crested streams 

Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's gleams ; 

With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground ; 

The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round. 

Amidst this war of elements, within 
More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, 
"Whose victim on his bed of torture lay, 
Breathing the slow remains of life away. 
Erewhile, victorious faith sublimer rose 
Beneath the pressure of collected woes; 
But now his spirit waver'd, went and came, 
Like the loose vapour of departing flame. 
Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die 
For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye. 
Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, 
The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began : — 
" O ye who shudder at this awful strife. 
This wrestling agony of Death and Life, 
Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast. 
Will leave me thus forsaken to the last ; 
Nature's infirmity alone you see ; 
My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free : 
Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust. 
The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust. 
Thou, of my faith the Author and the End ! 
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend ! 
The joy, that once Thy presence gave, restore, 
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more ; 
Down to the dust returns this earthly frame — 
Receive my spirit, Lord ! from whom it came." 

196 



• JAMES MONTGOIVIERY. 

He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smile, 
And seem'd to rest in silent prayer awhile : 
Around his couch with filial awe we kneel'd, 
When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd 
A Spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door. 
The sword of God in his right hand he bore; 
His countenance was lightning, and his vest* 
Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest ; 
Yet so benignly beautiful his form. 
His presence still'd the fury of the storm ; 
At once the winds retire, the waters cease ; 
His look was love, his salutation " Peace !" 

Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed, 
But terror grew to transport, while she gazed. — 
" 'Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim ! who drove 
Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove. 
Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried; 
*' Return to Paradise ; behold thy Guide ! 
O let me follow in this dear embrace !" 
She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face. 
Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue, 
Transform'd into an Angel's at the view. 
"I come!" he cried, with faith's full triumph fir'd, 
And in a sigh of ecstasy expir'd. 
The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled ; 
We stood alone, the living with the dead ; 
The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room. 
Display' d the corpse amidst the solemn gloom ; 
But o'er the scene a holy calm repos'd, 
The gate of heaven had open'd there, and clos'd. 



197 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. 



Hartman. Is slie well? 

Theobald. Her body is. 

Hart. And not her mind? oh, direst wreck of all! 
That noble mind! — But 'tis some passing seizure, 
Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; 
It is not madness ! 

Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction ; let us call it so ; 
Give it no other name. 

Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she beholds us, 
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing. 
Be gradually restored — 

Alice. Let me go to her. 

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee ; 
I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
Go in and lead her forth. 

Orra. Come back, come back ! the fierce and fiery light ! 

Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day. 

Orra. Have cocks crow'd yet? 

Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already 
Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky — 
Is it not daylight there ? And these green boughs 
Are fresh and fragrant round thee ; every sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 

Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turn, 
Rising between the gulfy dells of night, 
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea. 

198 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark, 
And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light, 
They will not come again. 

[Bending her ear to the ground. 
Hark, hark ! aye, hark ! 
They are all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom down. 

Theo. Be still, poor ti'oubled soul ! they'll ne'er return — 
They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, 
With crackling fagots on thy midnight fire. 
Blazing like day around thee ; and thy friends — 
Thy living, loving friends — still by thy side, 
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra ! 
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them? 

Orra. No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light, 
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing. 

Elea. My gentle Orra ! hast thou then forgot me ? 
Dost not thou know my voice ? 

Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return' d. 
For there be those who sit in cheerful halls. 
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds ; 
And once I liv'd with such ; some years gone by, — 
I wot not now how long. 

Hughohert. Keen words that rend my heart ! thou hadst a home, 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. 

Urston. Be more composed, my Lord ; some faint remembrance 
Returns upon her, with the Avell-known sound 
Of voices once familiar to her ear. 
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune. 
That may lost thoughts recall. 

, [Alice sings. 

Orra. Ha, ha ! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely. 
Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds ? 
It lures not me. — I know thee well enough : 
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat. 
And fleshless heads nod to thee — Off, I say! 

199 



THE PHKENZY OF OREA. 

Why are ye here? — That is the blessed sun. 

Elea. Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus; 
These are the voices of thy loving friends 
That speak to thee ; this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine so kindly. 

Hart. Oh, grievous state ! what terror seizes thee "? 

Orra. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead ; 
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 
Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now: 
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things; 
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds, 
I'll bide the trooping of unearthly steps, 
With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength. 

Hugh. A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. 

Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. • 

Orra. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye ; 
I may not look upon thee — yet I must. 
Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake? 
Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me! spare me, Being of strange power, 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. 

Elea. Alas, the piteous sight! to see her thus, 
The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra! 

Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile! 
Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state 
The slightest shadow of a base control? 

\_Raising Orra from the ground. 
No; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent; 
As honour'd art thou with thyf broken stem 
And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal Dame, 
With every studied form of mark'd devotion, 
Whilst I, in distant silence, scarcely proffer' d 
Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy; but now, 

200 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn, 

Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; 

And he who offers to thy alter'd state 

The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rence, 

Must in my blood — {To Hartman) — O pardon me, my friend! 

Thou'st wrung my heart. 

Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me, — I am to blame : 
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 
But what can now be done '? O'er such wild ravings 
There must be some control. 

Theo. O none ! none ! none ! but gentle sympathy, 
And watchfulness of love. 

My noble Orra! 
Wander where'er thou wilt, thy vagrant steps 
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary, 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

Alice. See how she gazes on him with a look, 
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness. 
Half saying that she knows him. 

El. There is a kindness in her changing eye. 



201 



GRAHAME. 



THE SABBATH. 



How still the morning of the hallow' d day! 
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd 
The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, 
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze ; 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 
The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tun'd song ; the lulling brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
Wliile from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke 
O'er-mounts the mist, is heard, at intervals. 
The voice of Psalms, the simple song of praise. 
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods ; 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 
Hath ceas'd ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
202 




Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man. 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
And as his stitF unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 
203 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live 

One hapless man, the remnant. of a wreck, 

Cast on some desert island of that main 

Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore 

To Acapulco. Motionless he sits. 

As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days, 

With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste ; 

Now striving to believe the albatross 

A sail appearing on the horizon's verge ; 

Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope 

Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours, 

Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time 

Upon the well-notch'd calendar to mark 

Another day, another dreary day, — 

Changeless. 

But yet by him, 
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserv'd 
The Sabbath passes; — 'tis his gi-eat delight. 
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray, 
And loves, and sighs to think, — that setting sun 
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops. 
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales. 
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat 
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below 
Chaunt in the dewy shade. Thus, all night long 
He watches, while the rising moon describes 
The progress of the day in happier lands. 
And now he almost fancies that he hears 
The chiming from his native village church : 
204 



GRAHAME. 

And now he sings, and fondly hopes the stram 
May be the same that sweet ascends at home 
In congregation full;, — where, not without a tear, 
They are remember'd Avho in ships behold 
The wonders of the deep : he sees the hand, 
The Avidow'd hand, that veils the eye suffus'd ; 
He sees his orphan' d boy look up, and strive 
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans 
On God— 

— Calm he views 
The far-exploding firmament, and dares 
To hope — one bolt in mercy is reserv'd 
For his release ; and yet he is resigii'd 
To live : because full Avell he is assur'd 
Thy Hand does lead him, thy right Hand upholds. 
And thy right Hand does lead him ! Lo ! at last, 
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep. 
Music remote, swelling at intervals. 
As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds 
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave : 
The cadence well he knows — a hymn of old. 
Where sweetly is rehears'd the lowly state 
Of Jesus, when his birth was fii-st announced, 
In midnight music, by an angel choir. 
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks. 
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks 
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell ; 
He looks, and starts to see, moving along, 
A fiery Avave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd. 
Approaching to the land ; straightway he sees 
A towering Avhiteness ; 'tis the heaven-fill' d sails 
That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced 
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the Avorld, 
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles 
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again. 
Forward the gleam-girt castle coast-wise glides, 
It seems as it would pass away — To cry 
205 



A SAEBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain, 

Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream — 

Not so his hand ; he strikes a flint, — a blaze 

Mounts from the ready heap of wither' d leaves : 

The music ceases ; accents harsh succeed, 

Harsh, but most grateful ; downward drop the sails ; 

Ingulf 'd the anchor sinks ; the boat is launch'd ; 

But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn: 

Oh then the transport of the man, unus'd 

To other human voice beside his own, — 

His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home. 

Though earth's diameter is interpos'd. 

Of perils of the sea he has no dread, 

Full well assur'd the mission'd bark is safe. 

Held in the hollow of the Almighty's Hand. 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 



Delightful is this loneliness; it calms 
My heart; pleasant the cool beneath these elms, 
That throw across the stream a moveless shade. 
Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks : 
How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's plaint, 
Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove, 
While every other woodland lay is mute, 
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest. 
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear, — 
The grasshopper's oft pausing chirp, — the buzz, 
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 
206 




^'^' \v 



That, soon as loos'd, booms with full twang away,— 
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, 
Scar'd from the shallows by my passing tread. 
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there 
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout 
Watches his time to spring; or, from above, 
207 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, 

Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood 

Bears off the prize : — sad emblem of man's lot ! 

He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, 

(Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,) 

Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings. 

Forgetful of his origin, and, worse, 

Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream ; 

And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape. 

Buoyant he flutters but a little while, 

Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 

For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. 

Now, let me trace the stream up to its source 

Among the hUls ; its runnel by degrees 

Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 

Closer and closer still the banks approach. 

Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots, 

With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, 

That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount 

Into the open air ; grateful the breeze 

That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles the plain 

Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view! 

But, oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought, 

That thousand and ten thousands of the sons 

Of toil partake this day the common joy 

Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale, 

Of breathing in the silence of the woods. 

And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day. 

Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb, 

To think that now the townsman wanders forth 

Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 

The coolness of the day's decline ; to see 

His children sport around, and simply pull 

The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon. 

Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 



208 



GRAHAME. 

Again I turn me to the hill, and trace 
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern'd ; 
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, 
And thinly strew'd with heath-bells up and down. 

Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, 
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm. 
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. 
How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel, dry. 
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along! 
'Tis from yon heath-roof 'd shielin; now it dies 
Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
Which He who listens to the halleluias 
Of choiring Seraphim delights to hear ; 
It is the music of the heart, the voice 
Of venerable age, — of guileless youth, 
In kindly circle seated on the ground 
Before then- wicker door. Behold the man ! 
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks 
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, 
Upon the smooth -cropt sward, the open Book, 
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight ; 
While heedless, at his side, the lisping boy 
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. 



209 



BLOOMFIELD. 



LAMBS AT PLAY. 



Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng, 

See o'er yon pasture how they pour along ! 

Giles round their boundaries takes his visual stroll, 

Sees every gate secur'd, and fences whole: 

High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, 

Where many a nestling first essays to fly ; 

Where blows the Avoodbine, faintly streak'd with red, 

And rests on every bough its tender head ; 

Round the young ash its twining branches meet, 

Or crown the hawthorn with its odour sweet. 

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 

Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green, 

Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? 

Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 

Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, 

Or grazed in merry clusters by your side? 

Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace. 

At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 

If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 

Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; 

In shades like these pursue your favourite joy. 

Midst Natui-e's revels, sports that never cloy. 

A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
And indolence, abash' d, soon flics the place : 
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one, 
From every side assembling playmates run ; 
210 




A c-i^ ^ > <5J=T'-. , 



A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
A starting crowd impatient of delay. 
Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed, 
Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;" 
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, 
The green turf trembling as they bound along ; 
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb. 
Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme. 
There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; 
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
Scattering the wild-brier, roses into snow, 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try, 
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fty. 
211 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below, 
The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, 
With milky kernels starting full, weigh' d down. 
Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown ; 
Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, 
Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day, 
And from the mazes of the leaty thorn 
Drop one by one upon the bending corn. 
Giles with a pole assails their -close retreats, 
And round the grass-grown dewy border beats; 
On either side completely overspread. 
Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. 
Green covert, hail! for thro' the varying year 
No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. 
Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
His frequent intervals of lonely ease. 
And with one ray his infant soul inspires. 
Just kindling there her never-dying fires, 
Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, 
And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
Just where the parting bough's light shadows play. 
Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, 
Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed. 
Where swarming insects creep around his head. 
The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain 
O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain ! 
Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd. 
He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade. 
And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, 
Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
212 




The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, 
The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 
And all prolific Summer's sporting train, 
Their little lives by various powers sustain. 
But what can unassisted vision do ? 
What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; 
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, 
When music waking speaks the sky-lark nigh ! 
213 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 

Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings. 
And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings; 
Still louder breathes, and in the face of day 
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark her way. 
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light. 
And place the wandering bird before his sight ; 
Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, 
Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. 
He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, 
Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; 
Her form, her motion, undistinguish'd quite, 
Save when she wheels direct from shade to light: 
The fluttering songstress a mere speck became, 
Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream; 
He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, 
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear. 
With no more guilt than Giles, and no more cave ? 
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing. 
Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting: 
He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, 
And takes his pole and brushes round again. 



214 



ELLIOTT. 



BURNS. 

That heaven's belov'd die early, 

Prophetic Pity mourns; 
But old as Truth, although in youth. 

Died giant-hearted Burns. 

Oh that I were the daisy 

That sank beneath his plough, 
Or, "neighbour meet," that "skylark sweet!" 

Say, are they nothing now? 

That mouse, "our fellow mortal," 

Lives deep in Nature's heart; 
Like earth and sky, it cannot die 

Till earth and sky depart. 

Thy Burns, child-honour'd Scotland ! 

Is many minds in one ; 
With thought on thought, the name is fraught, 

Of glory's peasant son. 

Thy Chaucer is thy Milton, 

And might have been thy Tell ; 
As Hampden fought, thy Sidney wrote, 

And would have fought as well. 

Be proud, man-childed Scotland ! 

Of earth's unpolished gem ; 
And "Bonny Doon," and "heaven aboon," 

For Burns hath hallowed them. 
215 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd, 

And grief baptized thy child ; 
As rivers run, in shade and sun, 

He ran his courses wild. 

Grieve not, though savage forests 

Look'd grimly on the w^ave. 
Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers 

Seem'd living in the grave. 

Grieve not, though, by the torrent. 
Its headlong course was riven, 

When o'er it came, in clouds and flame, 
Niagara from heaven ! 

For sometimes gently flowing. 
And sometimes chafed to foam, 

O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep, 
He sought his heavenly home. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor; 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother eveiy Avhere! 

And is thy brother blamed? 
216 



ELLIOTT. 

From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honouring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He bless' d the Steward, whose wealth make?^ 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labour's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



SPRING. 



Again the violet of our early days 

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, 
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; 

The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done, 

Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. 
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! 

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn ! 
Wake, buried lily ! spirit, quit thy tomb ! 

And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born! 

Then, haste, sweet rose ! sweet woodbine, hynin the morn, 
Wliose dew-drops shall illume -with pearly light 

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands 
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite 

Uplift in praise their little glowing hands, 

O'er every hill that under heav'n expands. 
217 



■M^' 




MOOEE. 

THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA. 

Farewet.t., — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) 
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water. 

More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. 

Oh ! Mr as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, 

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowing. 
And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! 



But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands. 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

218 



MOORE. 

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is burning, 

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old. 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses 
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, 

Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses. 
She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero ! forget thee — 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start. 

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee. 
Embalm' d in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling. 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 

They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, 

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. 

219 



NOURMAHAL. 
NOURMAHAL. 

THE BEAUTY OP EXPRESSION. 

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light, 
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender. 
Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. 
This was not the beauty, — oh! nothing like this. 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days. 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, 
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams! 
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, 
That charm of all others, was born with her face ; 
And when angry — for ev'n in the tranquillest climes 
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — 
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken 
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. 
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a dai-ker, a heavenlier dye. 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings I 
Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing 
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring 
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages. 
Yet pla3rful as Peris just loos'd from their cages. 
While her laugh, full of life, without any control 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon. 
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 

220 



WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning. 
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

And we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 

And smooth' d down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

221 







And we heard the distant and random gun 
Of the enemy sullenly firing. 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 



CUNNINGHAM. 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



Oh! my love's like the steadfast sun, 
Or sti'earas that deepen as they run. 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between light and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain ; 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys, and softer woes. 
Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle as when first I sued 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee, 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon, 

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond, and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at my feet 
Five sons and one fair daughter sweet, 
And time and care and birthtime woes 
Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose, 
223 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
Wlien words descend, like dews unsought, 
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free. 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower; 
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, Avith thee. 
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine : 
A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
Grave moments of sedater thought. 
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower, 
Oh then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye. 
And proud resolve and purpose meek 
Speak of thee more than words can speak. 
I think this wedded life of mine 
The best of all things not divine. 



224 





A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 



A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 
225 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

''Oh for a soft and gentle wind!" 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is. 

Our heritage the sea. 



226 



WALKER. 
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, 

So beautiful approve thee, 
So winning light are all thy ways, 

I cannot choose but love thee. 
Thy balmy breath upon my brow 

Is like the summer air. 
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now, 

To plant a soft kiss there. 

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 

Between the child and woman, 
And thoughts and feelings more profound, 

And other years are coming : 
And thou shalt be more deeply fair, 

More precious to the heart, 
But never canst thou be again 

That lovely thing thou art ! 

And youth shall pass, with all the brood 

Of fancy-fed affection ; 
And grief shall come with womanhood. 

And waken cold reflection. 
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep 

' O'er pleasures unreturning, 
Ijike one who wakes from pleasant sleep 

Unto the cares of morning. 

Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 

Of joyous expectation, 
Ordain'd to bless the little one. 

The freshling of creation ! 

227 




Nor doubt that He who thus doth feed 
Her early lamp with gladness, 

Will be her present Help in need, 
Her Comforter in sadness. 



Smile on, then, little winsome thing ! 

All rich in Nature's treasure, 
Thou hast within thy heart a spring 

Of self-renewing pleasure. 
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill 

Of mirth, till time shall end it ; 
'Tis Nature's wise and gentle Avill — 

And who shall reprehend it? 
228 



HOGG. 



THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 



Bonny Kilnieny gaed up the glen ; 

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 

It Avas only to hear the Yorlin sing, 

And pu' the cress-fioAver round the spring ; 

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye. 

And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree ; 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 

But lang may her minny look o'er the wa'. 

And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaA\' ; 

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 

And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame ! 

When many a day had come and fled. 
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, 
AVhen mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung. 
When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-bell i-unj. 
Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still. 
When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill. 
The Avood Avas sere, the moon i' the Avane, 
The reek o' the cot hung OAer the plain, 
Like a little Avee cloud in the Avorld its lane ; 
"VNHien the ingle loAv'd •Avith an eiiy lemc, 

22D 



THE RAPTUKE OF KILMENY. 

Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! 

"• Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 

Lang hae we sought baith holt and den ; 

By linn, by ford, by green-wood tree, 

Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 

Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen ? 

That bonny snood o' the birk sae green? 

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen '? 

Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" 

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, 

But nae smile Avas seen on Kilmeny' s face ; 

As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, 

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea. 

Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where. 

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; 

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew ; 

But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, 

And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, 

When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, 

And a land Avhere sin had never been ; 

A land of love and a land of light, 

Withouten sun, or moon, or night; 

Where the river swa'd a living stream, 

And the light a pure celestial beam : 

The land of vision it would seem, 

A still, an everlasting dream. i^a 

In yon green-wood there is a walk. 

And in that Avaik there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike, 

That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 

And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happ'd wi' the floweret* gay; 

230 



HOGG. 

]Jut the air was soft, and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kend nae niair, nor open'd her e'e, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 
She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim. 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings round were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here?" — 
They clasped her Avaist and her hands sae fair, 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair. 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye' re welcome here ! 

".Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind 

Aye keep the holy truths in mind 

That kindred spirits their motions see, 

Who watch their ways with anxious e'e, 

And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 

Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. 

And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 

And dear to Heaven the words of truth, 

And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 

And dear to the viewless forms of air. 

The minds that kythe as the body fair ! 

O bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain. 

If ever you seek the world again — 

That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear — 

Oh, tell of the joys that are Avaiting here ; 

And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 

Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be. 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 
And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day : 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 

231 




The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might fade : 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wander'd by. 
And she heard a song, she heard it sung^ 
She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it rung, 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn, 

232 



HOGG. 

" Oh ! blest be the day Kihiieny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrow'd gleid of the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun. 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, 
And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day, 
When the sun and the world have elyed away; 
"VVlien the sinner has gane to his waesome doon^, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" 

Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see 

The friends she had left in her own countrye, 

To tell of the place where she had been, 

And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 

To warn the living maidens fair. 

The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, 

That all whose minds immeled remain 

Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant rausicj soft and deep, 
They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane. 
All happed with flowers in the green-wood wenc. 
When seven long years were come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce Avas remember'd Kilmeny's name, 
Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see. 
But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare, 
For there Avas no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maiden's een 

233 



THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 

In that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower, 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower. 
And her voice like the distant melodye, 
That floats alonsi; the twilight sea. 




But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
Her holy hymns unheard to sing. 
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. 
But wherever her peaceful form appear'd, 
The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd ; 
234 



HOGG. 

The wolf play'd blithely round the field, 

The lordly bison low'd and kneel'd ; 

The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, 

And cower" d aneath her lily hand. 

And when at even the woodlands rung. 

When hymns of other worlds she sung 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion. 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! 

The Avild beasts of the forest came, 

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, 

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, 

And murmur'd, and look'd with anxious paia 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzai'd came with the tlu-ostle-cock ; 

The corby left her houf in the rock ; 

The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 

The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 

The wolf and the kid their raike began, 

And the tod, and tlie lamb, and the leveret ran ; 

The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young 

And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd ; — 

It was like an eve in a sinless Avorld ! 

When a month and a day had come and gane, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. 
But O, the words that fell from her mouth, 
Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
For they kendna whether she Avas living or dead ; 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain, 
And return'd to the Land of Thought again. 

235 



SPRAGUE. 
THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO THE CHAUNCEV 
PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 

Why perch ye here, 
Where mortals to their Maker bend? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you. 
Blessed wanderers of the iq^iier deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each wing, 
Far, far above, o'er the lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour, 

* Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 
236 



SFRAGUE. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. 

'Twere Heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On Nature's charms to feed, 
And Nature's own great God adore. 



THE BROTHERS. 

We are but two — the others sleep 
Through Death's untroubled night; 

We are but two — O, let us keep 
The link that binds us bright ! 

Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
That warms us is the same ; 

That good old man — his honest blood 
Alike we fondly claim. 

We in one mother's arms were locked- 

Long be her love repaid ; 
In the same cradle we were rocked, 

Round the same hearth we played. 

Our boyish sports were all the same, 

Each little joy and woe ; — 
Let manhood keep alive the flame, 

Lit up so long ago. 

We are but two — be that the band 

To hold us till we die ; 
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 

Till side by side we lie. 
237 




HEMANS. 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 



Thkiie was music on the midnight 
From a royal fane it roll'd; 
238 



HEMANS. 

And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolFd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death ! 

'Inhere was hurrying through the midnight, 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster gate. 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

Jiut a peal of lordly music 
Shook e'en the dust below, 

239 



THE COKONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 

When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound, 

And from the encircling band 
Stepp d prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound, 

AVith homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame. 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came? 
Was not the settled aspect fair? 

Did not a queenly grace. 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale, still face? 

Death! death! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of life? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? — 
It was a strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head. 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. 

All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compress' d. 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he looked not. 
Which once his star had been ; 
240 



HEMANS. 

To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there. 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas! the crown, the sceptre. 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head. 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow. 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array. 
Are borne to the house of silence doAvn, 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train ; 
But his face was wi*apt in his folding robe, 

When they lower'd the dust again. 
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above — ' 

Hymns die, and steps depart: 
Who call'd thee strong as Death, Love? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



241 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

Thou 'rt passing hence, my brother! 

O my earliest friend, farewell! 
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell; 
And from the hUls, and from the hearth, 

And from the household tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth. 

The brightness goes with thee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother! 

Thou 'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow. 

The 'vision of his glee, 
Are on me still — Oh!, still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister. 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is flU'd 

With lays she lov'd to sing. 
242 



HEMANS. 

Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
TeU her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our white-hair'd father, 

That in the paths he trod, 
The child he lov'd, the last on earth, 

Yet Avalks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

An tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth. 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see ! 
brother, brother ! may I dwell, 

Erelong, with them and thee! 



THE RETURN. 



" Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back 1 
The free, the pure, the kind?" 
— So murmur' d the trees in my homeward track. 
As they play'd to the mountain-wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ?" 
Whisper'd my native streams ; 
243 



THE EETURN. 

" Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, 
Still revered its first high dreams?" 

" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air. 
From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 
Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 
With the mother's trusting eye?" 

Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain. 

As I answer' d — "O ye shades! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 
bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 
The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd- 
The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 
Home of my boyish glee ! 

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears. 
To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those bless'd years. 
They shall make me again your own." 



244 



MITFORD. 



RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

Riemi. Claudia — nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day 
I found tliee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, 
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale 
As marble; those unseeing eyes were fix'd 
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent 
As sternly, as if the rude stranger. Thought — 
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought — 
Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain. 

Claudia. Nay, father. 

Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 

Rien. Claudia used 

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice. 
Prattling ; and that light busy foot astir 
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee 
That ever Avrought in hive. 

Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! 

Rien. "What ails thee, lady-bird^ 

Cla. Mine own dear home ! 
Father, I love not this new state; these halls, 
Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids, 
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home! 
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle 
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by. 
Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown 
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; 

245 




My pretty snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; 
And old Camillo. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse, 
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves. 
Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province 

246 



MITFORD. 

Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia, 

Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient gems, 

Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought 

By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds 

Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit 

Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish. 

The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo! 

Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings. 

Electors, princes ! not a bachelor 

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 

To ray fair daughter. 

Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from? 
Listen, sweet ! 
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, 
And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them 
Wliose was the shadow on the sunny wall? 
And if, at eventide, they heard not oft 
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice, 
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments ; and then 
A world of Avhispers, mix'd with low response. 
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains 
Of nightingales. 

Cla. Oh, father! father! 

Rien. Well ! 

Dost love him, Claudia? 

Cla. Father ! 

Rien. Dost thou love 

Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart. 
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, 
I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd 
To Rome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one. 
And now — Is there no casement myrtle-wreath'd, 
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night 
The lover's song? 

247 



SONG. 

Cla. Oh, father ! father ! 

Rien. Now, 
Back to thy maidens, with a lighten' d heart, 
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
In Kome, as thou art fairest; never princess 
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate 
From out an eagle's nest. 

Cla. Alas ! alas ! 
I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think 
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, 
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
For thee, dear father. 

Rien. Tremble ! let them tremble : 
I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd. 
Endured, protected. — Sweet, go dream of love ! 
I am their master, Claudia! 



SONG. 

Hail to the gentle bride! the dove 
High nested in the column's crest! 

Oh, welcome as the bird of love, 
Who bore the olive-sign of rest! 

Hail to the gentle bride! the flower 

Whose garlands round the column twine ! 

Oh, fairer than the citron bower. 

More fragrant than the blossom'd vine! 

Hail to the gentle bride! the star 

Whose radiance o'er the column beams 

Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar — 
A silver shine on trembling streams! 
248 




SIGOURNEY. 
THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

When was the red man's summer'? 

Wlien the rose 
Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock, 
Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed"? 
Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
Like living flame? When through the forest gleam'd 
The rhododendron ? or the fragrant breath 
Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
O'er the half laden nerve? 



No. When the groves 
In fleeting colors wrote their own decay, 
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen' d blast 
That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 
249 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, 

Heavy of wing and fearful ; when, with heart 

Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd 

The signs of coming winter : then began 

The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze, 

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, 

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. 

The quiet rivers that were wont to hide 

'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd 

By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept. 

While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky 

Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both wei'e merged 

In the same element. Slowly the sun, 

And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved 

And then it took upon its parting wing 

A rainbow glory. 

Gorgeous was the time, 
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee. 
Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
With musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
Our joys, alas! too oft were woe to thee, 
Yet ah, poor Indian! whom we fain would drive 
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands, 
The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown. 
And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 



250 



SIGOURNEY. 



THE HOLY DEAD. 



'Wherefore I praised the dead who are alreadj' dead, more than the living 
who are j^et alive." — Solomon. 



They dread no storm that lowers, 

No perish' d joys bewail ; 
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 

Nor drink of streams that fail : 
Tliere is no tear-drop in their eye, 

No change upon their brow ; 
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh, 

Though all earth's idols bow. 

Wlio are so greatly blest ■? 

From whom hath sorrow fled? 
Who share such deep, unbroken rest 

Where all things toil? The dead! 
The holy dead. Why weep ye so 

Above yon sable bier? 
Thrice blessed! they have done with woe. 

The living claim the tear. 

Go to their sleeping bowers. 

Deck their low couch of clay 
With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers ; 

And when they fade away, 
Think of the amaranthine wreath, 

The garlands never dim. 
And tell me why thou fly'st from death, 

Or hid'st thy friends from him. 
251 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 

We dream, but they awake ; 

Dread visions mar our rest; 
Through thorns and snares our way we take, 

And yet we mourn the blest! 
For spirits round the Eternal Throne 

How vain the tears we shed! 
They are the living, they alone. 

Whom thus we call the dead. 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 



I SAID with a moan, as I roamed alone. 

By the side of the solemn sea, — 
" Oh cast at my feet, which thy billows meet. 

Some token to comfort me. 
'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold 

I have lost, with an amethyst bright, 
Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket strong, 

That the rust must have quenched its light. 

" Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spray, 
To solace my drooping mind, 
For I'm sad and grieve, and erelong must leave 

This rolling globe behind." 
Then the Sea answered, " Spoils are mine, 

From many an argosy. 
And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep. 
But naught have I there for thee !" 
252 



SIGOUENEY. 

" When I mused before, on this rock-bound shore, 

The beautiful walked with me, 
She hath gone to her rest in the churchyard's breast 

Since I saw thee last, thou Sea! 
Restore ! restore ! the smile she wore, 

IVhen her cheek to mine was pressed, 
Give back the voice of the fervent soul 

That could lighten the darkest breast!" 

But the haughty Sea, in its majesty 

Swept onward as before. 
Though a surge in wrath from its rocky path. 

Shrieked out to the sounding shore — 
"Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing 

Than mortal e'er claimed before. 
For never the wealth of a loving heart. 

Could Ocean or Earth restore." 



253 



HEBER. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 



With heat o'erlabour'd and the length of way, 
On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. 
'Twas silence all, the sparklmg sands along ; 
Save where the locust triU\l her feeble song, 
Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell 
The wave's low whisper, or the camel's bell. — ■ 
'Twas silence all! — the flocks for shelter fly 
Where, waving light, the acacia shadows lie; 
Or where, from far, the flattering vapours make 
The noontide semblance of a misty lake : 
While the mute swain, in careless safety spread, 
With arms enfolded, and dejected head, 
Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high, 
And, late reveal'd, his children's destiny. — 
For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour. 
Had sped from Amram's sons the word of power ; 
Nor fail'd the dreadful wand, whose godlike sway 
Could lure the locust from her airy way; 
With reptile war assail their proud abodes. 
And mar the giant pomp of Egypt's gods. 
Oh, helpless gods! who nought avail'd to shield 
From fiery rain your Zoan's favour' d field! — 

254 



HEBER. 

Oh, helpless gods! who saw the curdled blood 
Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood, 
And four-fold night the wondering earth enchain, 
While Memnon's orient harp was heard in vain ! — 
Such musings held the tribes, till now the west 
With milder influence on their temples prest ; 
And that portentous cloud, which all the day 
Hung its dark curtain o'er their weary way, 
(A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) 
Roll'd back its misty veil, and kindled uito light! — 
Soft fell the eve : — But, ere the day was done, 
Tall waving banners streak'd the level sun ; 
And wide and dark along the horizon red. 
In sandy surge the rising desert spread. — 
" Mark, Israel, mark !" — On that strange sight intent, 
In breathless terror, every eye was bent ; 
And busy faction's fast-increasing hum. 
And female voices shriek, " They come ! they come !" 
They come, they come, in scintillating show 
O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow; 
And sandy clouds in countless shapes combine. 
As deepens or extends the long tumultuous line ; — 
And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace 
The threatening asjiects of each mingled race : 
For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, 
The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. 
From distant Gush they troop'd, a warrior train, 
Siwah's green isle and Sennaar's marly plain : 
On either wing their fiery coursers check 
The parch'd and sincAvy sons of AmaleJv : 
While close behind, inured to feast on blood, 
Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. 
'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold, 
Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd? 
Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates. 
Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her hundred gates, 

255 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 

Mother of armies! — How the emeralds glow'd, 

Where, flushed with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode ! 

And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, 

Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; 

And, still responsive to the trumpet's cry, 

The priestly sistrum murmur'd — Victory ! — 

Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom ? 

Whom come ye forth to combat ?— warriors, whom ? 

These flocks and herds — this faint and weary train — 

Red from the scourge and recent from the chain? — 

God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! 

Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! — 

North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly. 

The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. 

On earth's last margin throng the weeping train : 

Their cloudy guide moves on : — " And must we swim the main f 

'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 

Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood — 

He comes — their leader comes ! — the man of God 

O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod. 

And onward treads. — The circling waves retreat, 

In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 

And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 

The hard wet sand, and coral hills below. 

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, 
Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell — 
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd. 
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; 
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, 
And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof'd haunt, are seen. 
Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; 
The beetling waters storm above their head: 
While far behind retires the sinking day, 
And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. 

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, 
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night. 

256 



HEBER. 

Still in tlieii' van, along that dreadful road, 

Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God. 

Its meteor glare a ten-fold lustre gave, 

On the long mirror of the rosy wave : 

While its blest beams a sun-like heat supply, 

Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye — 

To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train 

Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : 

Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine. 

And ten-fold darkness broods above their line. 

Yet on they fare, by reckless vengeance led. 

And range unconscious through the ocean's bed : 

Till midway now — that strange and fiery form 

Show'd his dread visage lightening through the storm ; 

With withering splendour blasted all their might, 

And break their chariot-wheels, and marr'd their coursers' flight. 

" Fly, Misraim, fly !" — The ravenous floods they see, 

And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 

" Fly, Misraim, fly !" — From Edom's coral strand 

Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : — 

With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, 

And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep — 

Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past, 

As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast ; 

And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore 

The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 

Oh ! welcome came the morn, whex'e Israel stood 
In trustless wonder by th' avenging flood ! 
Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show 
The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below ; 
The mangled limbs of men — the broken car — 
A few sad relics of a nation's war : 
Alas, how few! — Then, soft as Elim's well, 
The precious teai*s of new-born freedom fell. 
And he, whose harden' d heart alike had borne 
The house of bondage and th' oppressor's scorn, 

257 R 



LINES ADDKESSED TO MRS. HEBER. 

The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, 

In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude — 

Till, kindling into warmer zeal, around 

The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound: 

And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest. 

The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's breast. 

She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky 

The dark transparence of her lucid eye, 

Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. 

"Wliere now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian spear "? 
On's sun-like shield, and Zoan's chariot, where? 
Above their ranks the whelming waters spread. 
Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed!" — 
And every pause between as Miriam sang. 
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, 
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread, — 
"Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed!" 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER. 



If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail. 

In green Bengola's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 
258 



HEBER. 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 

When, on our deck reclined, 
In careless ease my limbs I lay 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye, 

Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star . 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still, 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead, • 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea. 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 
259 



LINES. 



LINES 



WRITTEN TO A MARCH COMPOSED IN IMITATION OF A MILITARY BAND. 

I SEE them on their winding way, 
Above their ranks the moon-beams play, 
And nearer yet, and yet more near, 
The martial chorus strikes the ear. 

They're lost and gone, — the moon is past, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, 
And fainter, fainter, fainter still. 
The dim march warbles up the hill. 

Again, again, — the pealing drum. 

The clasliing horn — they come ! they come ! 

And lofty deeds and daring high. 

Blend with their notes of victory. 

Forth, forth, and meet them on their way, 
The trampling hoof brooks no delay ; 
The thrilling fife, the pealing drum. 
How late — but oh, how loved they come ! 



260 




^^t^^^^'"^^^ 




SOUTHEY. 



THE VISIT OF MADOC— A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH HILLS. 



Now hath Prince Madoc left the holy Isle, 
And homeward to Aberfraw, through the wilds 
Of Arvon, bent his course. A little way 

261 



THE VISIT OF MADOC. 

He turned aside, by natural impulses 

Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. 

That lonely dwelling stood among the hills 

By a grey mountam-stream ; just elevate 

Above the -winter torrents did it stand, 

Upon a craggy bank ; an orchard slope 

Arose behind, and joyous was the scene 

In early summer, when those antic trees 

Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax 

Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. 

But save the flax-field and that orchard slope, 

All else was desolate, and now it wore 

One sober hue ; the narrow vale, which wound 

Among the hills, was grey with rocks, that peerd 

Above its shallow soil; the mountain side 

Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes 

Clatter'd adown the steep, beneath the foot 

Of straggling goat dislodged ; or lower'd with crags, 

One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them, 

To thunder down. All things assorted well 

With that grey mountain hue ; the low stone lines, 

Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man. 

The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn, 

The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees. 

Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe. 

The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash 

Whose knotted roots were like the drifted rock 

Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale, 

Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, 

RoU'd the loud mountain-stream — 

When Madoc came, 
A little child was sporting by the brook, 
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them 
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven 
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream 

262 



SOUTHEY. 

Sail onward far away. But when he heard 

The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd 

The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh. 

Tlie little boy still fix'd his eyes on him. 

His bright blue eyes ; the wind just moved the curls 

That cluster'd round his brow ; and so he stood, 

His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze 

In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand, 

And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt 

There in the hut ; when from that cottage-door 

A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt 

With such a fear — for she had cause to fear — 

As when a bird, returning to her nest, 

Turns to a tree beside, if she behold 

Some prjdng boy too near the dear retreat. 

Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd 

The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired 

If on his wayfare he had lost the track, 

That thither he had stray' d. "Not so," replied 

The gentle Prince ; " but having known this place, 

And its old inhabitants, I came once more 

To see the lonely hut among the hills." 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath loved Avitli venturous step to tread 
The chambers dread 
Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam 
Lost in the arch of darkness overhead, 

■ And mark'd its gleam 
Playing afar upon the sunless stream. 

Where from their secret bed. 
And course unknown, and inaccessible, 
The silent waters well ; 
263 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night, 
He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way, 
With what delight refresh'd his eye 
Perceives the shadow of the light of day, 
Through the far portal slanting, where it falls 
Dimly reflected on the watery walls: 
How heavenly seems the sky; 
And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up, 

Eager again to greet 
The living world and blessed sunshine there, 
And drink, as from a cup 
Of joy, Avith thirsty lips, the open air. 

Far other light than that of day there shone 

Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. 
They too in darkness enter'd on their way ; 
But far before the car, 
A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, 
Fill'd all before them. 'Twas a light which made 
Darkness itself appear 
A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, 
Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. 
Their way was through the adamantine rock 
Which girt the World of Woe ; on either side 
Its massive walls arose, and overhead 
Arch'd the long passage ; onward as they ride, 
With stronger glare the light around them spread ; 

And lo ! the regions dread, 
The Woi-ld of Woe before them, opening wide. 

There rolls the fiery flood. 
Girding the realms of Padalon around. 
A sea of flame it seem'd to be. 
Sea without bound ; 
For neither mortal nor immortal sight 
Could pierce across through that intensest light. 
2G-t 






-i^-r^H 




THxlLABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 



It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, 
That in a lonely tent had cast 
The lot of Thalaba ; 
There might his soul develop best 
Its strengthening energies ; 
There might he from the world 
265 



THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 

Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, 
Till at the written hour he should be fourid 
Fit servant of tlie Lord, without a spot. 

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled 

In that beloved solitude ! 

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze 

Flow with cool current o'er his cheek? 

Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore, 

With lids half-closed, he lies. 

Dreaming of days to come. 

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, 

Now licks his listless hand; 

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, 

Courting the Avon ted caress. 

Or comes the Father of the Eains 
From his caves in the uttermost West, 
Comes he in darkness and storms? 
AVhen the blast is loud; 
When the waters fill 
The traveller's tread in the sands; 
When the pouring shower 
Streams adown the roof; 

When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds ; 
WTien the out-strain'd tent flags loosely: 
Within there is the embers' cheerful glow, 
The sound of the familiar voice. 
The song that lightens toil, — 
Domestic Peace and Comfort are within 
Under the common shelter, on dry sand. 
The quiet camels ruminate their food ; 
The lengthening cord from Moath falls. 
As patiently the old man 

Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the hearth 
The damsel shakes the coffee-grains, 
266 



SOUTHEY. 

That Avith warm fragrance fill the tent ; 
And while, w^h dexterous fingers, Thalaba 
Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet 
Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, 
Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. 

Or when the winter tori'ent rolls 

Down the deep-channeU'd rain-course, foamingly, 

Dark with its mountain spoils, 

With bare feet pressing the wet sand. 

There wanders Thalaba, 

The rushing flow, the flowing roar. 

Filling his yielded faculties, 

A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. 

Or lingers it a vernal brook 

Gleaming o'er yellow sands? 

Beneath the lofty bank reclined, 

With idle eye he views its little waves. 

Quietly listening to the quiet flow ; 

While in the breathings of the stirring gale. 

The tall canes bend above. 

Floating like streamers in the wind 

Their lank uplifted leaves. 

Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath ; God hath given 
Enough, and blest him with a mind content. 
No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams ; 
But ever round his station he beheld 
Camels that knew his voice, 
And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call. 
And goats that, morn and eve. 
Came with full udders to the damsel's hand. 
Dear child ! the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt. 
It was her work ; and she had twined 
His girdle's many hues ; 
And he had seen his robe 
267 



THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 

Grow in Oneiza's loom. 
How often, with a memory-mingled joy 
Which made her mother live before his sight, 
He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof I 
Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, 
Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm, 
Or Hx'd it on the glowing oven's side 
■yVith bare wet arm, and safe dexterity. 

'Tis the cool evening hour: 

The tamarind from the dew 

Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. 

Before their tent the mat is spread; 

The old man's solemn voice 

Intones the holy book. 

What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, 

Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth, 

Azure and gold adornment? Sinks the word 

With deeper influence from the Imam's voice 

Where in the day of congregation crowds 

Perform the duty-task? 

Their Father is their Priest, 

The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer. 

And the blue Firmament 

The glorious Temple, where they feel 

The present Deity. 

Yet tlirough the purple glow of eve 
Shines dimly the white moon. 
The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance. 
Rest on the pillar of the tent. 
Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, 
The dark-eyed damsel sits ; 
The old man tranquilly 
Up his curl'd pipe inhales 
The tranquillising herb. 
So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 
2G8 



SOUTHEY. 

While his skill'd fingers modulate 

The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. 

Or if he strung the pearls of poesy, 

Singing with agitated face 

And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart. 

A tale of love and woe ; 

Then, if the brightening moon that lit his face, 

In darkness favour'd hers, 

Oh ! even with such a look, as fables say, 

The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg. 

Till that intense aifection 

Kindle its light of life. 

Even in such deep and breathless tenderness 

Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth, 

So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, 

Save when from her full eyes 

She wipes away the swelling tears 

That dim his image there. 

She call'd him Brother ; was it sister-love 
For which the silver rings, 

Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms. 
Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother's eye 
Were her long fingers tinged. 
As when she trimm'd the lamp, 
And through the veins and delicate skin 
The light shone rosy? that the darken'd lids 
Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? 
That with such pride she trick'd 
Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day 
Wreath'd the red flower-crown round 
Their waves of glossy jet? 
How happily the days 
Of Thalaba went by ! 
Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! 
269 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound ; 

Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil 

Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, 

His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff; 

The canvas swells before the breeze, the sea 

Sings round her sparkling keel, and soon the Lord 

Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. 

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain 

The azure heaven ; the blessed Sun alone 

In unapproachable divinity 

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light. 

How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky 

The billows heave! one glowing green expanse, 

Save where along the bending line of shore 

Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck 

Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 

Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 

Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam 

The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 

With long protruded neck the cormorants 

Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 

The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling; even the insect swarms 

From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, 

To sport through one day of existence more ; 

The solitary primrose on the bank 

Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn 

Its bleak autumnal birth; the rocks and shores. 

The forest and the everlasting hills, 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine, . . . they partook 

TTie universal blessing. 

270 



CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). 



SUNDAY EVENING. 



I SAT last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 

At the open casement watching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me are holy. 
Holier than tongue can tell, 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The Sun had shone bright all day — 
His setting was brighter still, 

But there sprang up a lovely air 
As he dropt down the western hill. 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holy-day folks in their best, 

Released from their six days' cares 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

I heard the light-hearted laugh, 
The trampling of many feet — 

I saw them go merrily by. 

And to me the sight was sweet. 
271 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness, 

A pervading spirit of bliss, 
Peculiar from all other times, 

In a Sabbath eve like this. 

Methinks, though I knew not the day, 
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 

Would tell me that Nature was keeping 
Some solemn festival. 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 
Lie down with a look of peace, 

As if they knew 'twas commanded 

That this day their labours should cease. 

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling 
As he mounts to bid Heaven good-night; 

The brook sings a quieter tune — 
The sun sets in lovelier light — 

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers 
Are tinged with more exquisite hues. 

More odorous incense from out them 
Steams up with the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things. 
With that quiet gladness of spirit 

No thought of this world brings — 

I watched the departing glory, 
Till its last red streak grew pale. 

And Earth and Heaven were woven 
In Twilight's dusky veil. 
272 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Then the lark dropt down to his mate 
By her nest on the dewy ground ; 

And the stir of liuman life 

Died away to a distant sound — 

All sounds died away — the light laugh — 
The far footstep — the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall — 

And, by little and little, the darkness 

Waved wider its sable wings. 
Till the nearest objects and largest 

Became shapeless confused things — 

And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart. 

And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart ! 

"And when night comes — the dark night of age, 

What remaineth beneath the sun 
Of all that was lovely and loved? 

Of all we have learnt and done? 

"When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold, 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — 
Oh, Heavens! can the heart grow old? 

"Then, what remaineth of life 

But the lees with bitterness fraught? 

What then?" — But I check'd as it rose. 
And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo ! 

An answer was written on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the depths of the dark blue sky. 

There appeared a sign in the east — 
A bright, beautiful, fixed star!— 

And I look'd on its steady light 
Till the evil thoughts fled afar — 

And the lesser lights of Heaven 
Shone out with their pale soft rays, 

Like the calm unearthy comforts 
Of a good man's latter days — 

And there came up a sweet perfume 
From the unseen flowers below, 

Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 
Of deeds done long ago ; 

Like the mem'ry of well-spent time — 
Of things that Avere holy and dear — 

Of friends, " departed this life 
Li the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burthen of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



274 




LEYDEN. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 



How sweet thy modest light to view, 
Fair Star, to love and lovers dear! 
275 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

^\Tiile trembling on the falling dew 
Like beauty shining through a tear. 

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
To mark that image trembling there, 

Thou seem' St to smile with softer gleam, 
To see thy lovely face so fair. 

Though, blazmg on the arch of night, 
The moon thy timid beams outshine 

As far as thine each starry light; — 
Her rays can never vie with thine 

Thine are the soft enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers on the plain. 

And whispers to the closing flowers. 
That soon the sun will rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
As music, wafts the lover's sigh, 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love's delicious ecstasy. 

Fair Star ! though I be doom'd to prove 
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, 

Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! 
But sweeter to be lov'd again ! 



276 



LEYDEN. 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 



Slave of the dark and dirty mine! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? — 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
"When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 

Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot lov'd, chill, still, and mild. 
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd 

By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 

Wliere loves of youth and friendship smil'd, 

Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, 
That once so bright on fancy play'd, 

Eevives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful on the tomb-fire drear — 

A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; 
277 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

Hei- eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding stars to mine: 

Pier fond heart throbs with many a fear I - 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that lov'd me true ! 

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new: 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

Chill on my wither' d heart: — the grave 
Dark and untimely met my view — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave! 

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn. 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memoiy's fond regrets the prey, 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 



278 



CLARE. 



CLARE. 



MARY LEE. 



I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear. 

Gather' d all for thee ? 
They are not flowers of Pride, 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Can they fear thy frowns the while, 

Though offered by me? 

Here's the lily of the vale, 
That perfumed the morning gale, 

My fairy Mary Lee ! 
All so spotless and so pale. 

Like thine own purity. 
And might I make it known, 
'Tis an emblem of my own 
Love — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Surely flowers can bear no blame, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
279 



MAEY LEE. 

Here's the violet's modest blue, 

That 'neath hawthorns hides from view 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
Would show whose heart is true, 

Wliile it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot, 
The sun disdains them not; 
I'm as lowly too, indeed, 

My charming Mary Lee; 
So I've brought the flowers to plead, 

And win a smile from thee. 

Here's a wild rose just in bud ; 
Spring's beauty in its hood. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
'Tis the first in all the wood 

I could find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
Yet it hides its worth within, 
Like my love; for I've no power. 

My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak unless the flower 

Can make excuse for me. 

Though they deck no princely hall.?. 
In bouquets for glittering balls. 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Richer hues than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee ; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canopy 
Than all wealth's golden skill, 

My charming Mary Lee! 
Love would make them dearer still. 

That offers them to thee. 
280 



CLARE. 

My wreathed flowers are few, 
Yet no fairer drink the dew,' 

My bonny Mary Lee! 
They may seem as trifles too- 
Net, I hope, to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and Avealth's disguise; 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more? 
Surely not, Mary Lee ! 



281 



BEAINARD. 



SALMON RIVER 



Hie viridis tenera prsetexit arundine ripas 
Mincius.— ViKGiL. 



'Tis a sweet stream — and so, 'tis true, are all 
That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl 
Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, 

Pursue their way 
By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, 
By rock, that since the Deluge fixed has stood, 
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood 

By night and day. 

But yet there's something in its humble rank. 
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, 
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank 

With unscared look : 
There's much in its wild history, that teems 
With all that's superstitious — and that seems 
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, 

In that small brook. 

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, 
And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain 
The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain — 
And many a quiver, 

282 



BRAINARD. 

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, 
Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, 
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill 
From Salmon River. 

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made 
Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade 
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade, 

Or tangled dell. 
Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, 
And asked about their fortunes long ago, 
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show 

Old Samuel. 

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook 
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook 
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook 

For earthly fox ; 
Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, 
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed, to wear, 
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair 

Transfer him to a box. 

Such are the tales thev tell. 'Tis hard to rhymo 

About a little and unnoticed stream, 

That few have heard of — but it is a theme 

I chance to love ; 
And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, 
And Avhistle to the note of many a deed 
Done on this river — which, if there be need, 

I'll try to prove. 



283 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON KIVER. 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER. 

How cold, how beautiful, how bright. 
The cloudless heaven above us shines ; 

But 'tis a howling winter's night, 
'Twould freeze the very forest pines! 



"The Avinds are up, while mortals sleep; 

The stars look forth when eyes are shut; 
The bolted snow lies drifted deep 

Around our poor and lonely hut. 

"With silent step and listening ear. 
With bow and arrow, dog and gun, 

We'll mark his track, for his prowl we hear, 
Now is our time ! — come on, come on !" 

O'er many a fence, through many a wood. 
Following the dog's bewildered scent, 

In anxious haste and earnest mood. 
The Indian and the white man went. 

The gun is cocked, the bow is bent. 
The dog stands with uplifted paw, 

And ball and arrow swift are sent, 
Aimed at the prowler's very jaw. 

The ball, to kill that fox, is run 
Not in a mould by mortals made ! 

The arrow which that fox should shun 
Was never shaped from earthly reed ! 

The Indian Druids of the wood 

Know where the fatal arrows grow — 

They spring not by the summer flood. 

They pierce not through the winter snow ! 

28-t 



BRAINARD. 

Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose 
Was never once deceived tUl novv? 

And why, amid the chilling snows, 
Does either hunter wipe his brow? 

For once they see his fearful den, 
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves 

By night around the homes of men, 
By day— along the stream it loves. 

Again the dog is on his track. 

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, 

They may not, though they would, look back, 
They must go forward— forward still. 

On^^•ard they go, and never turn, 

•Spending a night that meets no day ; 

For them shall never morning sun 
Light them upon their endless M^ay. 

The hut is desolate, and there 
The famished dog alone returns; 

On the cold steps he makes his lair. 
By the shut door he lays his bones. 

Now the tired sportsman leans his gun 

Against the ruins of the site, 
And ponders on the hunting done 

By the lost wanderers of the night. 

And there the little country girls 

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, 

And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, 
Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook. 



285 



EDWAKD COATE PINKNEY. 



A HEALTH. 



1 FILL this Clip to one made up of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of hei' gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven. 

Ilcr every tone is music's own, like those of morning bii'ds. 
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — the idol of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, 
AVhen death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's but hers. 

I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon— 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some more of such 

a frame. 
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 

286 



EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 



A PICTURE-SONG. 



How may this little tablet feign the features of a face, 
Which o'er-infornis with loveliness its proper shai'c of space ; 
Or human hands on ivory enable us to see 
The charms that all must wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee ! 

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories tells, 
■ And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded crystal Avells ; 
Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, 
Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sky. 

They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fail-. 
As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air ; 
But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought, 
That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought. 

The song I shig, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry 
Of something better, which is now a memory to me. 
Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot. 
Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot. 

The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on. 
Like children playing in the sun, are gone — for ever gone ; 
And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, 
Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind. 

Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone. 
Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harp- 
string's tone ; 
And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free, 
If touched, Avill yield the music yet it first received of thee. 

287 




CLEMENT C. MOORE. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 

288 



CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; 
And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's naj) ; 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from the bed to see what Avas the matter. 
Away to the Avindow I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer ! and Vixen! 
On, Comet ! on, Ciqnd ! on, Donder and BUtzen ! 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all !" 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof — 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 
His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry I 
His cheeks Avere like roses, his nose like a cherry ! 

289 T 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow ; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath . 

He had a broad face and a little round belly, 

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head. 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. 

And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away, they all flew like the down of a thistle. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

" Jlappj Christmas to all, and to all a good-nigld f 



290 




BARTON. 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 



Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day 
Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold. 

To evening's hues of silver grey 
Thy cup of paly gold ; — 



Be thine the offering, owing long 
To thee, and to this pensive hour, 

Of one brief tributary song. 
Though transient as thy flower. 
291 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 

I love to watch at silent eve 

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light, 

And have my inmost heart receive 
The influence of that sight. 

1 love at such an hour to mark 

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, 
And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark, 

The garden's glory still. 

For such 'tis sweet to think the while. 
When cares and griefs the breast invade, 

Is friendship's animating smile 
In sorrow's dark'ning shade. 

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup— 
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears, 

And bears the sinking spirit up 
Amid its chilling fears — 

But still more animating far. 

If meek Religion's eye may trace 

Even in thy glimm'ring, earth-born star, 
The holier hope of Grace. 

The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom 
Expands to glad the close of day. 

So through the shadows of the tomb 
May break forth Mercy's ray. 



292 




SOTHEBY. 



RHINEFIELD,— A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST. 



Rhinefield ! as through thy solitude I rove, 
Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night, 
Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light ; 

Now where some antique oak, itself a grove, 
Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the sunny glade. 

Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn 

While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn, 
I count the herd that crops the dewy blade : 

Frequent at eve list to the hum profound 
That all around upon the chill breeze floats, 
Broke by the lonely keeper's wild, strange notes. 

At distance followed by the browsing deer ; 

Or the bewilder'd stranger's plaintive sound 

That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear. 
293 



ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT. 
SKIRID, 

A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY. 

Skirid! remembrance thy loved scene renews; 

Fancy, yet lingering on thy shaggy brow, 

Beholds around the lengthened landscape glow, 
Which charmed, when late the day-beam's parting hues 

Purpled the distant clifF. The crystal stream 
Of Usk bright winds the verdant meads among; 
The dark heights lower with wild woods o'erhung ; 

Pale on the grey tower falls the twilight glean. 
And frequent I recal the sudden breeze, 

Which, as the sun shot up his last pale flame, 
Shook every light leaf shivering on the trees : 

Then, bathed in dew, meek evening silent came, 
While the low wind, that faint and fainter fell, 
Soft murmured to the dying day — Farewell! 



ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT 
MIDNIGHT. 

'TwAS night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave, 
Where I had wander'd, tranced in thought, alone 
'Mid Cromlech's and the Carnedd's funeral stone. 

Pensive and slow I sought the Menai's wave : 
Lulled by the scene, a soothing stillness laid 

Each pang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless brow 

The moon, that full orb'd rose, with peaceful glow 
Beamed on the rocks ; with many a star arrayed, 

Crlitter'd the broad blue sky ; from shore to shore 
O'er the smooth current streamed a silver light, 
Save where along the flood the lonely height 
Of rocky Penmaenmaur deep darkness spread ; 

And all was silence, save the ceaseless roar 
Of Conway bursting on the ocean's bed. 
294 




BRYANT. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



OuK band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood. 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know tlie sea. 
295 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery, 

That little dread us near! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear: 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again. 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind. 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over. 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up. 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves. 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads — 

The glitter of their rifles. 

The scampering of their steeds. 

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain ; 
296 



BRYANT. 

"Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 

A moment in the British camp — 
A moment — and away 

Back to .the pathless forest, 
Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs, 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 



297 




GREEN RIVER. 

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with waters of gi'een, 
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 



Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 
And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
And dimples deepen and whirl away, 

298 



BRYANT 

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 

With a sudden flash on the eye is throwTi, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild. bees' hum; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there. 

And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
l)ut windest aAvay from haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
Or the simpler comes with basket and book, 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me. 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river clierry and seedy reed. 
And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout. 
From dawn to the blush of another day 
Like traveller singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear, 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them Avinding awa}' from sight. 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
29'J 



GREEN RIVER. 

While o'er them the vine to its thicket clingp, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; 
And I envy thy stream as it glides along, 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men. 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 

And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

AVhere the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet placBj 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face. 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

That won my heart in my greener years. 



300 



BRYANT. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the slirubs the jav, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

nie wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood. 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague en men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late lie bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more 

And then I think of one Avho in her youthful beauty died. 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

301 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



A moiiTY realm is the Land of Dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky. 

And Aveltering oceans and trailing streams, 
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 
And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 

And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 

The souls of the happy dead repair, 

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, 
And walk in the fainter glory there. 

With the souls of the living hand in hand. 

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere. 
From eyes that open on earth no more — 

One warning word from a voice once dear — 
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er ! 

Far off from those hills that shine with day. 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty delight, 
There walk the spectres of guilty fear. 

And soft low voices, that float through the night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 
302 



BRYANT. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower. 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play ! 

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the early blooms of May! 

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! 

O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, 
And only wander where thou may'st meet 

The blessed ones from its shining walls. 

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world of strife ; 

And the light that over that border streams 
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 



303 



f^c ^ 




THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



Ay, this is freedom! — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke : 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed frpm wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed. 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 
304 



BRYANT. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air. 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam. 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In vain the she- wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle's sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 
305 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Plere, from dim woods, tlie aged past 

Speaks solemnly; and I behold 
The boundless future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew; 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

IJright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 



306 




THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

When our mother Nature hiughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 
307 



WILLIAM TELL. 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; 

The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase. 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree. 

There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower. 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 



WILLIAM TELL. 

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee. 
Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ! 
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty. 

That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold. 

And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. 

Thou, Avhile thy prison walls were dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught. 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 
For the great work to set thy country free. 
308 



BRYANT. 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

All day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, 
The Easter-sparrow repeats his song, 

A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms, 
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long. 

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, 
A hymn to Avelcome the budding year ; 

The south-wind wanders from field to forest, 
And softly whispers, The spring is here! 

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city. 
Before these lays from the elm have ceased ; 

The violet breathes by our door as sweetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking. 

The daflfodil is our door-side queen ; 
She pushes upward the sward already. 

To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are warbled 
From wiiy prison in maiden's bower ; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. 

Yet these sweet lays of the early season 
And these fair sights of its sunny days, 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen. 
And only fair when we fondly gaze. 
309 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

Tliere is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 

Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, 
• The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, 
And liollows green in the sun ai-e waiting 
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 



310 




DRAKE. 



BRONX. 



I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, 
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 

Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, 

Like parting friends Avho linger while they sever ; 

Enforced to go. yet seeming still unready, 

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy, 

311 



BRONX. 

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow 
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 

Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow. 
Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes, 

When first his power in infant pastime trying, 

Con^reals sad autunm's tears on the dead branches lying. 



From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, 

And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, 
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, 

The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen 
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, 
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded. 



The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, 
The bluefinch caroU'd in the still retreat; 

The antic squirrel capered on the ground 
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet : 

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle 

Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. 



There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, 
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting 

Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses. 
Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting 

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 

Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding. 

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of mom, 
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em. 

The winding of the merry locust's horn, 

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: 

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, 

Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. 

312 



DRAKE. 

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand 

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness ? 

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? 

Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude. 

To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude? 



Yet I will look upon thy face again. 
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 

A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
Thy Avaves are old companions, I shall see 

A well-remembered form in each old tree. 

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 



SONNET. 



Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, 

And chilled with the Avorld's ice? Then come with me, 

And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen 

Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, unviewed 

By scotfing eye ; and let our hearts beat free 

With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude 

The access is, and none will there intrude, 

To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude ! 

Such scenes move not their feelings — for they hold 
No fellowship with nature's loneliness ; 
The frozen wave reflects not back the gold 

And crimson flushes of the sun-set hoiu' ; 

The rock lies cold in sunshine — not the power 
Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness. 

313 




HALLECK. 



RED JACKET. 

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. 

ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR. 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
First in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 

A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
His love for the young land he left behind; 
314 



IIALLECK. 

And throned her in the genate-hall of nations, 
Eobed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent as his own mind's creations. 

And beautiful as its green Avorld of thought: 

And faithful to the Act of Congi-ess, quoted 

As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 
He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 

The most enlightened people ever known. 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 

And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 
We shall export our poetry and wine; 

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. 

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 

Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic. 
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings; 

Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 

But that the forest tribes have bent for ages 
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 

Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 

Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 
315 



RED JACKET. 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 

Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 

As bravely fought for, and as proud a token 
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

Thy "•arb though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 

That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 

And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, 
A more becoming evening dress than thine; 

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, 

As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, 
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? 

Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
As earth's first kings— the Argo's gallant sailors, 

Heroes in history, and gods in song. 

Is beauty? — Thme has with thy youth departed; 

But the love-legends of thy manhood's years. 
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, 

Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; 

And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
The secret of their mastery — they are short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 

Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
The hearts of millions till they move as one : 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 

The road to death as to a festival ; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchi-es, have shrouded 

With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
316 



HALLECK. 

Who will believe ? Not I — for in deceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 

I cannot spare the luxury of believing 

That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, 

With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ; 

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! 

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 

And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain 

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! 

And underneath that foce, like summer ocean's, 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions. 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 

Love — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, 
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; 

Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; 
Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 

Hope — that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 

Sorrow — that none are left thee to inherit 

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! 



S17 




CONNECTICUT. 



(FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.) 



Still her gray rocks tower above the sea 

That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 

'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, 
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave ; 

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray. 

Nor even then, unless in their own way. 

318 



HALLECK. 

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
A " fierce democracie," where all are true 

To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 
And to their laws denominated blue ; 

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 

Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest. 

Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 

A justice of the peace, for the time being. 

They bow to, but may turn him out next year ; 

They revei-ence their priest, but disagreeing 
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; 

They have a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things ; and should Park appear 

From his long tour in Africa, to show 

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — "We know." 

They love their land, because it is their own. 
And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 

Would shake hands with a king upon his throne. 
And think it kindness to his majesty ; 

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 

All — but a few apostates, who are meddling 

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; 

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 

And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," 

And what the moralists call overreaching, 
A decent living. The Virginians look 

Upon them with as favourable eyes 

As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. 

319 



CONNECTICUT. 

But these are but tlieir outcasts. A^iew them near 
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed 

And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 

And there the loAvliest farmhouse hearth is graced 

With manly hearts, in piety sincere. 

Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, 

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave. 

Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 

Is felt even in their nation's destiny; 
Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, 

And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll. 

Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
And tales of love and war — listen to one 
Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennington. 



"When on that field his band the Hessians fought. 
Briefly he spoke before the fight began : 

" Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 
For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man. 

By England's king; a bargain, as is thought. 

Are we worth more ? Let's prove it now we can ; 

For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun. 

Ok Mary Stark's a widow !" It was done. 



Hers are not Terape's nor Arcadia's spring, 
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales. 

The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling 
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 

Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales 

Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn time 

Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 

320 



HALLECK. 

Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves, 

The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, 
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, 
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; 

And his mind's brightest vision but displays 

The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 

And when you dream of woman, and her love ; 

Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power ; 
The maiden listening in the moonlight grove. 

The mother smiling in her infant's bower ; 
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 

Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 

OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820. 

" The good die first, 
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
Burn to the socket." — Wordsworth. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days ! 
None kncAv thee but to love thee. 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying. 
From eyes unused to weep. 

And long where thou art lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 
321 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 

Like thine, are laid in earth, 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine, 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine: 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



322 



HORACE SMITH. 

THEFIRSTOF MARCH. 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, 
Which warm'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vine, 
From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower. 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, 
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. 

How awful is the thought of the Avonders underground, 

Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound ; 

How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed. 

And a world's . support depends on the shooting of a seed ! 

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day 

Is commission'd to I'emark whether Winter holds her sway : 

Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, 

Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring. 

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowers, 
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers : 
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves. 
And the veiy skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. 

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, 
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their A\'ing, 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. 

323 



HARVEST HOME. 



The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, 
And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, 
O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee. 



DARLEY. 



HARVEST HOME. 

Down the dimpled green-sward dancing 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy,. 

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How they glimmer, how they quiver! 

Sparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 
324 



PEAED. 
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 



Once on a time, when sunny May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers ; 
Happy, — he knew not whence or how,; 

And smiling, — who could choose but love him'? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow. 

Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. 

Old Time, in most appalling wrath. 

That valley's green repose invaded ; 
The brooks grew dry upon his path. 

The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; 
But Time so swiftly winged his flight. 

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 
That Childhood watched his paper kite, 

And knew just nothing of the matter. 

With curling lip, and glancing eye. 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute. 
But Childhood's glance of purity 

Had such a holy spell within it. 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baffled pinion, 
And hid his envy and despair. 

Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 
325 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, 

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter. 
And proffered him a fearful cup. 

Full to the brim of bitter water: 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name, 

And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow," 
He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; 

I'll taste it, if I must, to-«norrow." 

The Muse of Pindus thither came, 

And wooed him with the softest numbers 
That ever scattered wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers; 
Though sweet the music of the lay, 

To Childhood it was all a riddle. 
And "Oh," he cried, "do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle." 

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him with most sage endeavour, 
Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall. 

And why no toy may last for ever : 
She talked of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses. 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! — Oh ! Manhood's dreams 

Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure, 
Of Glory's toils. Ambition's schemes, 

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given, 
Lit up by rays from Seraph-eyes, 

And glimpses of remembered heaven ! 



326 




THE VICAR. 



Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 

Had tiirn'd our Parish topsy-turvy. 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy. 
The man, who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the Green, 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 
327 



THE VICAR. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected, 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

"Our master knows you; you're expected." 

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the Doctor's " winsome marrow ;" 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 



If, when he reached his journey's end. 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend. 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or liquor, — 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns ; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 
328 



PRAED. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stablished Truth, or started Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep ; 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 



His sermon never said nor show'd 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and heart that penn'd and plann'd them, 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 



And he was kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut, or garnished cottage, 
And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage ; 
At his approach complaint grew mild. 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter, 
The clammy lips of Fever smiled 

The welcome, which they could not utter. 



He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Cfesar, or of Venus : 
From him I learned the Rule of Three, 

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quse genus ; 
I used to singe his powder'd wig. 

To steal the staff he put such trust in ; 
"And make the puppy dance a jig, 

Wlien he began to quote Augustin. 
329 



A CHARADE. 

Alack the change! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled. 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more; 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 

Whose style is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid 1 Look down. 

And construe on the slab before you, 
'• Hie jacet Gulielmus Brown, 

Vir nulla non donandus lauro." 



A CHARADE. 

(THE WORD IS "CAMPBELL," THE POET.) 

Come from my First, ay, come ! 

The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thund'ring dniui 

Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy fathers fought. 

Fall as thy fathers fell! 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; — 

So — forward ! and farewell ' 
330 



PRAED. 

Toll ye, my Second ! toll ! 

Fling high the flambeaux' light ; 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul, 

Beneath the silent night ! 
The wreath upon his head. 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed; 

So — take him to his rest ! 

Call ye, my Whole, ay, call ! 

The lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day; 
Go, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame, 

On the turf of a soldier's grave. 



331 



HOOD. 

THE ELM TREE.— A DREAM IN THE WOODS. 



"And this our life, exempt from public haunt. 
Finds tongues in trees!"— ^5 you Like it. 



Part I. 

'Tavas in a shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound — 
And from a Tree 
There came to me 
A sad and solemn sound, 
That sometimes murmur'd overhead, 
And sometimes underground. 

Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh, 
Amid the boughs to moan ; 

It mutter'd in the stem, and then 
The roots took up the tone ; 

As if beneath the dewy grass 
The dead began to groan. 

No breeze there was to stir the leaves; 

No bolts that tempests launch, 
To rend the trunk or rugged bark ; 

No gale to bend the branch ; 
No quake of earth to heave the roots, 

That stood so stiff and staunch. 
332 




But still the sound was In my ear, 

A sad and solemn sound, 
That sometimes murmur'd overhead, 
333 



THE ELM TREE. 

And sometimes underground — 
'Twas in a shady Avenue, 
"Wliere lofty Elms abound. 

From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, 
And fragrant linden trees ; 
No living sound 
E'er hovers round, 
Unless the vagrant breeze, 
The music of the merry bird, 
Or hum of busy bees. • 

But busy bees forsake the Elm 
That bears no bloom aloft — 

The finch was in the hawthorn-bush, 
The blackbird in the croft; 

And among the firs the brooding dove, 
That else might murmur soft. 

Yet still I heard that solemn sound, 

And sad it was to boot, 
From ev'ry overhanging bough. 

And each minuter shoot ; 
From rugged trunk and mossy rind, 

And from the twisted root. 

From these, — a melancholy moan ; 

From those, — a dreary sigh ; 
As if the boughs were wintry bare, 

And wild winds sweeping by, — 
Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud 

Was steadfast in the sky. 

No sign or touch of stirring air 

Could either sense observe — 
The zephyr had not breath enough 
334 



HOOD. 

The thistle-down to swerve, 
Oi' force the lihiiy gossamers 
To take another curve. 

In still and silent slumber hush'd 

All Nature seemed to be : 
From heaven above, or earth beneath, 

No whisper came to me — 
Except the solemn sound and sad 

From that Mysterious Tree! 

A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, 

As is that dreamy roar 
When distant billows boil and bound 

Along k shingly shore — 
But the ocean brim was far aloof, 

A hundred miles or more. 

No murmur of the gusty sea, 

No tumult of the beach, 
However they may foam and fret, 

The bounded sense could reach — 
Methought the trees in mystic tongue 

Were talking each to each! — 

Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales 
Of greenwood love or guilt. 
Of Avhisper'd vows 
Beneath their boughs ; 
Or blood obscui'ely spilt ; 
Or of that near-hand Mansion House 
A royal Tudor built. 

With wary eyes, and ears alert, 

As one who walks afraid, 
I wander'd down the dappled path 
335 



THE ELM TREE. 

Of mingled light and shade — 
How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue 
Beyond the green arcade! 

How cheerly shone the glimpse of Heav'n 

Beyond that verdant aisle ! 
All overarch' d with lofty elms, 

That quench'd the light, the while, 
As dim and chill 
As serves to fill 
Some old Cathedral pile! 

And many a gnarled trunk was there. 

That ages long had stood. 
Till Time had wrought them into shapes 

Like Pan's fantastic brood; 
Or still more foul and hideous forms 

That Pagans carve in wood! 

A crouching Satyr lurking here, 

And there a Goblin grim — 
As staring full of demon life 

As Gothic sculptor's whim ; 
A marvel it had scarcely been 

To hear a voice from him! 

Some whisper from that horrid mouth. 

Of strange, imearthly tone ; 
Or wild infernal laugh, to chill 

One's marrow in the bone. 
But no — it grins like rigid Death, 

And silent as a stone ! 

As silent as its fellows be. 

For all is mute with them, — 
The branch that climbs the leafy roof — 
336 



HOOD. 

The rough and mossy stem — 

The crooked root^ — 

And tender shoot 
Where hangs the dewy gem. 

One mystic Tree alone there is, 
Of sad and solemn sound — 

That sometimes murmurs overhead, 
And sometimes underground — 

In all that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound. 



Part II. 

The Scene is changed ! No green Arcade, 

No trees all ranged a-row — 
But scatter'd like a beaten host, 

Dispersing to and fro ; 
With here and there a sylvan corse. 

That fell before the foe. 

The Foe that down in yonder dell 

Pursues his daily toil ; 
As witness many a prostrate trunk. 

Bereft of leafy spoil. 
Hard by its wooden stump, whereon 

The adder loves to coil. 

Alone he works — his ringing blows 
Have banish'd bird and beast ; 

The hind and fawn have canter'd off 
A hundred yards at least ; 

And on the maple's lofty top. 
The linnet's song has ceased. 
337 



THE ELM TREE. 

No eye his labour overlooks, 

Or when he takes his rest; 
Except the timid thrush that peeps 

Above her secret nest, 
Forbid by love to bave the young 

Beneath her speckled breast. 

The Woodman's heart is in his work, 

His axe is sharp and good: 
With sturdy arm and steady aim 
He smites the gaping wood; 
From distant rocks 
His lusty knocks 
Re-echo many a rood. 

Aloft, upon his poising steel 

The vivid sunbeams glance — 
About his head and round his feet 

The forest shadows dance ; 
And bounding from his russet coat 

The acorn drops askance. 

His face is like a Druid's face, 
. With wrinkles furrow'd deep. 
And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown 

As corn that's ripe to reap ; 
But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin, 

Is Avhite as wool of sheep. 

His frame is like a giant's frame ; 

His legs are long and stark ; 
His arms like limbs of knotted yeW ; 
His hands like rugged bark ; 
So he felleth still 
With right good will, 
As if to build an ark ! 
338 



.V Pi^. 




Oh! well to him the tree might breathe 

A sad and solemn sound, 
A sigh that murmur'd overhead, 

And gi'oans from underground; 
As in that shady Avenue, 

Where lofty Elms abound ! 



But calm and mute the maple stands, 
The plane, the ash, the fir, 
339 



THE ELM TREE. 

The elm, the beech, the drooping birch, 

Without the least demur; 
And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf 

Makes no unusual stir. 

The pines — those old gigantic pines, 

That writhe — recalling soon 
The famous human group that writhes 

With snakes in wild festoon — 
In ramous wrestlings interlaced, 

A Forest Laocoon — 

Like Titans of primeval girth 

By tortures overcome. 
Their brown enormous limbs they twine, 

Bedew'd with tears of gum — 
Fierc5 agonies that ought to yell, 

But, like the marble, dumb. 

Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands 

So like a man of sin, 
Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad 

To feel the worm within — 
For all that gesture, so intense. 

It makes no sort of din ! 

An universal silence reigns 

In rugged bark or peel, 
Except that very trunk which rings 

Beneath the biting steel — 
Meanwhile, the Woodman plies his axe 

With unrelenting zeal ! 

No rustic song is on his tongue, 

No whistle on his lips ; 
But with a quiet though tfulness 
340 



HOOD. 

His trusty tool he grips, 
And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out 
The bright and flying chips. 

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint 

He spreads the fatal gash ; 
Till, lo ! the remnant fibres rend. 

With harsh and sudden crash, 
And on the dull resounding turf 

The jarring branches lash ! 

Oh ! now the Forest Trees may sigh, — 

The ash, the poplar tall. 

The elm, the birch, the drooping beech, 

The aspens — one and all, 

With solemn groan 

And hollow moan. 

Lament a comrade's fall ! 

A goodly Elm, of noble girth, 
That thrice the human span — 

Wliile on their vai'iegated course 
The constant Seasons ran. 

Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt — 
Had stood erect as Man. 

But now, like mortal Man himself. 
Struck down by hand of God, 

Or heathen idol tumbled prone 
Beneath th' Eternal's nod. 

In all its giant bulk and length 
It lies along the sod ! — 

The echo sleeps : the idle axe, 

A disregarded tool. 
Lies crushing with its passive weight 
341 



THE ELM TREE. 

The toad's reputed stool; 
The Woodman wipes his dewy brow 
Within the shadows cool. 

No zephyr stirs: the ear may catch 

The smallest insect-hum; 
But on the disappointed sense 

No mystic whispers come; 
No tone of sylvan sympathy — 

The Forest .Trees are dumb. 

No leafy noise, nor inward voice, 
No sad and solemn sound, 

That sometimes murmurs overhead, 
And sometimes underground — 

As in that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound! 



Part III. 



The deed is done: the Tree is low 

That stood so long and firm; 
The Woodman and his axe are gone. 

His toil has found its term ; 
And where he wrought the speckled thrush 

Securely hunts the worm. 

The cony from the sandy bank 

Has run a rapid race. 
Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern, 

To seek the open space ; 
And on its haunches sits erect 

To clean its furry face. 
342 



HOOD. 

The dappled fawn is close at hand, 

The hind is browsing near, — 
And on the larch's lowest bough 
The ousel whistles clear ; 
But checks the note 
Within its throat, 
As choked with sudden fear! 

With sudden fear her wormy quest 

The thrush abruptly quits ; 
Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern 

The startled cony flits ; 
And on the larch's lowest hough 

No more the ousel sits. 
With sudden fear, 
The dappled deer 

Effect a swift escape ; 
But well might bolder creatures start 

And fly, or stand agape, 
With rising hair, and curdled blood. 

To see so grim a Shape! 

The very sky turns pale above. 
The earth grows dark beneath ; 

The human Terror thrills with cold. 
And draws a shorter breath — 

An universal panic OAvns 

The dread approach of Death ! 

With silent pace, as shadows como, 

And dark as shadows be. 
The grisly Phantom takes his stand 

Beside the fallen Tree, 
And scans it with his gloomy eyes, 

And laughs with horrid glee — 

343 



THE ELM TREE. 

A dreary laugh and desolate, 
Where mh-th is void and null, 

As hollow as its echo sounds 
Within the hollow skull: 

"Whoever laid this Tree along, 
His hatchet was not dull! 

Tlie human arm and human tool 

Have done their duty well! 
But after sound of ringing axe 
Must sound the ringing knell; 
When elm or oak 
Have felt the stroke. 
My turn it is to fell! 

No passive unregarded tree, 

A senseless thing of wood, 
Wherein the sluggish sap ascends 

To swell the vernal bud — 
But conscious, moving, breathing trunks 

That throb with living blood! 

Ah ! little recks the Royal mind. 

Within his Banquet-Hall, 
While tapers shine, and music breathes, 

And Beauty leads the ball, — 
He little recks the oaken plank 

Shall be his palace wall ! 

Ah! little dreams the haughty Peer, 
The while his falcon flies — 

Or on the blood-bedabbled turf 
The antler' d quarry dies — 

That in his own ancestral Park 
The narrow dwelling; lies ! 



344 



HOOD. 

But haughty Peer and mighty King 
One doom shall overwhelm ! 
The oaken cell 
Shall lodge him well 
Whose sceptre ruled a realm — 
While he who never knew a home 
Shall find it in the Elm! 

The tall abounding Elm that grows 
In hedgerows up and down, 

In field and forest, copse and park, 
And in the peopled town, 

With colonies of noisy rooks 
That nestle on its crown. 

And well th' abounding Elm may grow 

In field and hedge so rife, 
In foi'est, copse, and wooded park, 

And 'mid the city's strife, — 
For every hour that passes by 

Shall end a human life!" 

The Phantom ends : the shade is gone ; 

The sky is clear and bright ; 
On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, 

There glows a ruddy light ; 
And bounding through the golden fern 

The rabbit comes to bite. 

The thrush's mate beside her sits, 

And pipes a merry lay; 
The dove is in the evergreens ; 

And on the larch's spray 
The fly-bird flutters up and down, 

To catch its tiny prey. 

345 



THE ELM TREE. 

The gentle hind and dappled fawn 

Are coming up the glade ; 
Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing 

Is glad, and not afraid — 
But on my sadden'd spirit still 

The Shadow leaves a shade: 

A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, 

As though by certain mark 
I knew the fore-appointed Tree, 

Within whose rugged bark 
This warm and living frame shall find 

Its narrow house and dark. 

That mystic Tree which breathed to me 

A sad and solemn sound. 
That sometimes murmur' d overhead, 

And sometimes underground — 
Within that shady Avenue, 

Where lofty Elms abound. 



346 




PRINGLE. 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 



Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past ; 
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 

347 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

And shadows of things that have long since fled 

Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead; 

And ray Native Land, whose magical name 

Thrills to my heart like electric flame; 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, 

When the feelings were young, and the world was new, 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; — 

All — all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! 

And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 

My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, 

Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, 

I fly to the Desert, afar from man! 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, — 

The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, 

The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 

And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly. 

Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; 

When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 

And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh ; 

Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 

Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 

There is rapture to vault on the champing steed. 

And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 

With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 

The only law of the Desert Land. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
By the wild-deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

348 



PRINGLE. 

By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, 

And the kiidu and eland unhunted reclme 

By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild vine 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood. 

And the river-horse gambols unscai-ed in the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scoop' d their nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parch'd Karroo. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away in the Wilderness vast 
Where the White Man's foot hath never pass'd, 
And the quiver'd Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely cross'd with his roving clan : 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
Which Man hath abandon'd from famine and fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
Wliere grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 

349 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink: 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook -with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round. 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night winds round me sigh. 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky; 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone ; 
" A still small voice" comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
"Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying — "Man is distant, but God is near!'' 



350 




LANDOR. 

THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD. 



'TwAS evening, though not sunset, and the tide, 
Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher: 
351 



THE WATER-NYMPH Al'PEARING ^0 THE SHEPHERD. 

'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck 
The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
Oh that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art! 
It always brings us enemies or love. 
Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend; 
I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe 
Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed, — 
Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a- Nympli divine ! 
I cannot wait describing how she came, 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor; of what happen'd there remains 
Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank 
Before I was aware ; for with .surprise 
Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 

Even her attire 
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art ; 
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod. 
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
"Shepherd," said she, "and will you wrestle now, 
And with the sailor's hardier race engage V 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
How to keep up contention ; could I fail. 
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press? 
"Wliether a shepherd, as indeed you seem. 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daunted; no, I will engage!" 
"But first," said she, "what wager will you lay?" 
"A sheep," I answered; "add whate'er you will." 
352 



LANDOR. 

"I cannot," she replied, "make that retui'n ; 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
Jn the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
Shake one and it awakens ; then apply 
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs thci-e. 
And I have others given me by the njanphs, 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. 
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend, — 
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next." 



RODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

THE REPROACH OF THE BEREAVED. 

Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates — 
Plainly I see it — death to me : pursue 
The dictates of thy leaders ; let revenge 
Have its full sway; let Barbary prevail. 
And the pure ci'eed her elders have embraced : 
Those placid sages hold assassination 
A most compendious supplement to law. 

Jul Thou knoAvest not the one, nor I the other. 
Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear; 
Ilcr form, her voice, all hast thou bauisht from me, 
353 z 



RODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

Nor dare I, wretched as I am ! recal 

Those solaces of every grief erewhile. 

I stand abased before insulting crime, 

I falter like a criminal myself; 

The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, 

That held thy steeds erect and motionless 

As molten statues on some palace-gate, 

Shakes as with palsied age before thee now. 

Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever, 

Without a father, mother, friend, or name. 

Daughter of Julian ! — Such was her delight — 

Such was mine too! what pride more innocent, 

^Vllat surely less deserving pangs like these, 

Than springs from filial and parental love ! 

Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth 

To meet the balmy breath of early life. 

Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless. 

Will stretch before her their whole weary length 

Amid the sameness of obscurity. 

She wanted not seclusion to unveil 

Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell ; 

She found it in all places, at all hours : 

While to assuage my labours, she indulged 

A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye. 

Still to avert my perils there arose 

A piety that even from me retired. 



354 



JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 



Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue? 

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 

Hesperus, Avith the host of heaven, came. 

And lo! creation widened in man's view. 

AVho could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find, 

AVhilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 

Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 



35; 




■k' ^^ 



KEBLE. 

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." 

SwKiiT nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew, 
356 



KEBLE. 

What more than magic in you lies^ 

To fill the heart's fond view? 
In childhood's sports, companions gay. 
In sorrow, on Life's downward way, 
How soothing ! in our last decay, 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Eelics ye are of Eden's bowers, 

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair. 
As when ye crown'd the sunshme hours 

Of happy wanderers there. 
Fall'n all beside — the world of life, 
How is it stain'd with fear and strife I 
In Reason's woi'ld what storms ai'e rife. 
What passions range and glare ! 

But cheerful and unchang'd the while 
Your first and perfect form ye show, 

The same that Avon Eve's matron smile 
In the world's opening glow. 

The stars of heaven a course are taught 

Too high above our human thought; 

Ye may be found if ye are sought. 
And as Ave gaze, aa'C knoAV, 

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes. 

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorroA\ ■ 
And guilty man, where'er he roams, 
Your innocent mirth may borroAv. 
The birds of air before us fleet, 
They cannot brook our shame to meet — 
But Ave may taste your solace sweet. 
And come again to-morroAv. 

Ye fearless in your nests abide — 

Nor may Ave scorn, too proudly Avise, 
357 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

Your silent lessons, undescried 

By all but lowly eyes : 
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : 
Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 

He taught us how to prize. 

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, 

As when He paused and own'd you good 

His blessing on earth's primal bower. 
Ye felt it all renew'd. 

What care ye now, if winter's storm 

Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? 

Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, — 
Ye fear no vexing mood. 

Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind. 
That daily court you and caress, 

How few the happy secret find 
Of your calm loveliness ! 

"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light 

To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight; 

Go sleep, like closing flowers, at night, 
And Heaven thy morn will bless." 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

"A jo3-ful and a pleasant thing it is to be thankful." 

Why so stately, maiden fair, 

Rising in thy nurse's arms 
With that condescending air ; 

Gathering up thy queenly charms, 
358 



KEBLE. 

Like some gorgeous Indian bird, 
Which, when at eve the bahny copse is stirr'd, 

Turns the glowing neck to chide 
Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide 

Again its lustre deep 
Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? 

Not as yet she comprehends 

How the tongues of men reprove. 

But a spirit o'er her bends, 

Train'd in heaven to courteous love, 

And with wondering grave rebuke 
Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look. — 

Graceless one, 'tis all of thee, 
Who for her maiden bounty, full and free. 

The violet from her gay 
And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay. 

Therefore, lo, she opens wide 

Both her blue and wistful eyes, — 

Breathes her grateful chant, to chide 
Our too tardy sympathies. 

Little babes and angels bright — 
They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night. 

How th' all-holy Hand should give, 
The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. 

We see it and we hear. 
But wonder not : for why ? we feel it all too near. 

Not in vain, when feasts are spread. 

To the youngest at the board 
Call we to incline the head, 

And pronounce the solemn word. 
Not in vain they clasp and raise 
The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise, — 
Taught, perchance, by pictur'd wall 
359 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

IIow little ones before the Lord may fall. 

How to His lov'd caress 
Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. 

Children in their joyous ranks, 
As you pace the village street, 

Fill the air with smiles and thanks 
If but once one babe you greet. 

Never Aveary, never dim, 
From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. 

Babes and angels grudge no praise : — 
r>ut elder souls, to whom His saving ways 

Are open, fearless take 
Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. 

Save our blessings, Master, save 
From the blight of thankless eye : 

Teach us for all joys to crave 
Benediction pure and high, 

Own them given, endure them gone, 
Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them Avon : 

Prize them as rich odours, meet 
For Love to lavish on His sacred feet ; — 

Prize them as sparkles bright 
Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing well of light. 



360 



MILMAN. 

THE HEBREW WEDDING. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet, 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road, 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming. 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceast : 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door ; 
That the favour'd youth admits, 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear. 
Waiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din. 
At the bridegroom's entering in : 
Entering in a Avelcome guest 
To the chamber of his rest. 

Chorus of Maidens. 

Now the jocund song is thine. 
Bride of David's kingly line ; 
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, 
And thy shrouded eye resembleth 
Violets, when the dews of eve 
A moist and tremulous glitter leave 
3G1 




On the bashful sealed lid ! 
Close within the bride-veil hid, 
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of each entering maiden friend, 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds, — 'tis he! 'tis he! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him. 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 
362 



MILMAN. 



THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. 

Even thus, amid thy pride and luxury, 

O Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee. 

That secret coming of the Son of Man. 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : 

AVhen that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, 
Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away: 
Still, to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet. 

And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : 
Still to the pouring out the Cup of AVoe; 
Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, 
And mountains molten by his burning feet. 
And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat. 

The hundred-gated Cities then, 

The Towers and Temples, nam'd of men 
Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings ; 

The gilded summer Palaces, 

The courtly bowers of love and ease, 

Wliere still the Bird of Pleasure sings ; — 

Ask ye the destiny of them? 

Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem! 
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd ; 
The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll. 

And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. 

Oh! who shall then survive? 
Oh ! who shall stand and live ? 

363 • 



THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. 

A\'lieii all that hath been is no more: 

When for the round earth hung in air, 

With all its constellations fair 
In the sky's azure canopy; 
When for the breathing i:arth, and sparkling Sea, 

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, 
Ileavin"- along the abyss profound and dark, 
A iiery deluge, and without an Ark. 

Lord of all power, when thou art there alone 
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, 

That in its high meridian noon 

Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon : 
AVhen thou art there in thy presiding Dtate, 

Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom ; 

When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb, 
The dead of all the ages round thee wait : 
And when the tribes of wickedness are strown 

Like forest-leaves in th' autumn of thine ire: 
Faithful and True ! thou still wilt save thine own ! 

The Saints shall dwell within th' imharming fire : 
Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. 

Even safe as we by this still fountain's side, 

So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Brido, 
Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 

Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, 

O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines ; 

We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 
Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 



3G4 



LEIGH HUNT. 

AN ITALIAN GARDEN. 

A xoBMC range it was, of many a rood, 

Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood : 

Indeed, the whole was leafy; and it had 

A winding stream about it, clear and glad, 

That danced from shade to shade, and on its way 

Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. 

There was the pouting rose, both red and w^hitc, 

The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light, 

Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-colored box, 

Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks, 

The lady lily, looking gently down, 

Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, 

The daisy, lovely on both sides, — in short, 

All the sweet cups to Avhich the bees resort, 

With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between 

Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine. 

With orange, Avhose warm leaves so finely suit, 

And look as if they shade a golden fruit ; 

And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade 

Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd. 

And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright. 

Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering 

light. 
So now you Avalk'd beside an odorous bed 
Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; 
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk. 
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk ; 

3G5 




And now pursued the stream, and as you trod 
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, 
I*\'lt on your face an air, watery and sweet. 
And a new sense m your soft-lightmg feet ; 

366 



LEIGH HUNT. 

And then, perhaps, you enter'd upon shades, 

Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, 

Through which the distant palace, now and then, 

Look'd lordly forth with many- window' d ken, — 

A )and of trees, which reaching round about, 

In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out, 

With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks 

To lie and read in, sloping into brooks. 

Where at her drink you startled the slim deer, 

Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. 

And all about, the birds kept leafy house. 

And sung and darted in and out the boughs ; 

And all about, a lovely sky of blue 

Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd througli ; 

And here and there, in every part, were seats, 

Some in the open walks, some in retreats 

With bowcring leaves o'erhead, to which the eye 

Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, — 

Places of nestling green, for poets made, 

Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, 

The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, 

Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light. 

But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-wav, 
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, 
A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : 
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound 
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees — 
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees ; 
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, 
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill, 
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said 
Something eternal to that happy shade. 
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers 
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; 
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay 
And myrtle, and just glancing to the day, 

3G7 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Lurk'd u ptivilion, — a delicious sight, — 

Nniall, marble, well-proportioii'd, niellowy white, 

"With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more,- 

And a young orange either side the door. 

The door was to the wood, forward and square ; 

The rest was domed at top, and circular; 

And through the dome the only light came in, 

Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Auou Bex Adiiem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
An Angel writing in a book of gold: — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" — The Vision rais'd its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Aiiswer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
Keplied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, 
l)Ut cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee then, 
"Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night 

It came again with a great wakening light, 

And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd. 

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



368 




CROLY. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 



Palace of Beauty! where the Moorish Lord, 
Kmg of the bow, the bridle, and the sword, 
Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. 
Oh ! to have seen thee in the ancient days, 
When at thy morning gates the coursers stood. 
The " thousand" milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood, 
In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King ; 
And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood 
Of jewell'd Sheik and Emir, hastening, 
Before the sky the dawning purple show'd, 
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. 
Lovely thy mora — thy evening lovelier still, 
When at the waking of the first blue star 
That trembled on the Atalaya hill, 
The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose, 

369 



THE ALHAMBRA. 

Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war; 

But summoning thy beauty from repose, 

The shaded slumber of the burning noon. 

Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, 

Shooting the sparkling column from the vase 

Of ciystal cool, and falling in a haze 

Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, 

And the rich bordering beds of every bloom 

That breathes to African or Indian sky, 

Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone ; 

Then was the harping of the minstrels heard, 

In the deep arbours, or the regal hall, 

Hushing the tumult of the festival, 

Wlien the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rearM, 

And told of Eastern glories, silken hosts, 

Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd ; 

Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts 

Of the for Western sea, — the sons of blood. 

The iron men of tournament and feud. 

That round the bulwarks of their father swarm' d, 

Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall. 

Till the Ked Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. 

Wliere are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun. 
That had no rival, and no second ? — gone ! 
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd. 
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim, 
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim. 
Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 
Where is thy horn of battle? that, but blown. 
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne ; 
Brought every spear of Afric from the Avail ; 
Brought every charger barbed from the stall. 
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore ; 
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 
The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 
Queen of Earth's loveliness, there was a stain 

370 



CROLY. 



Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore: 

Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous — and 'tis o'er. 

The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 

Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! 



FLORA. 



The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth 
She decks her Summer beauty; Primrose sweet, 
With blossoms of pure gold ; enchanting Rose, 
That, like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun, 
Dew-diadem'd ; the perfumed Pink, that studs 
The earth with clustering ruby; Hyacinth, 
The hue of Venus' tresses ; Myrtle green, 
That maidens think a charm for constant love, 
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream ', 
Fair Lily! woman's emblem, and oft twined 
Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen, 
Such is their whiteness ; downcast Violet, 
Turning away its sweet head from the wdnd. 
As she her delicate and startled ear 
From passion's tale! 



371 



FERGUSON. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 



Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now: 

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow, 

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, 

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below; 

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe : 

It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, Avhat a glow! 

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun shines not so ! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row 

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 

" Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out ;" bang, bang, the sledges go : 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow 

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "ho!" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor; a Bower, thick and broad: 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow I bode ; 
And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road, 

372 



A 



FERGUSON. 

The low reef rolling on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mammast by the board; 

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; 

But courage still, brave mariners — the Bower yet remains. 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky high, 

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing — here am I!" 

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time, 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ; 

But Avhile ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be. 

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! 

Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped : 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 

F'or a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here. 

For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; 

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home ; 

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down ^t last; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. — 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, 
What pleasures Avould thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea' 
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou"? 
The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now 
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-Avoods to fight the fierce sea unicorn. 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, oiF he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-bulFetmg the far-astonished shoals 

373 



THE FOKGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Of his back-browsing ocean calves ; or, haply in a cove, 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands. 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line; 

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day. 

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play; 

But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave, 

A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 

lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving waves that round about thee bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend : 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee. 

Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea ! 

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland. 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave : 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung. 

Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among i 



374 



^"■"'jj. 




MOULTRIE. 



THE THREE SONS. 



I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould ; 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears. 
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be, — I know his face is fair, 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: 
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 

375 



THE THREE SONS. 

But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind ; 

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find: 

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, 

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next ; 

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, 

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. 

Oh should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: 

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful broAv, 

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be. 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. 

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen. 

Nor his brov/ so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; 

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, 

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. 

When he walks Avith me, the country folk, Avho pass us in the street. 

Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. 

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth. 

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove 

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. 

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, 

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I can not tell. 
For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given. 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. 

376 



MOULTRIE. 

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns' his shining seraph brow. 

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, 

Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. 

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest. 

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. 

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, 

But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. 

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, 

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things 

I know that we shall meet our babe, (liis mother dear and I,) 

When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; 

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. 

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, 

But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. 

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, — 

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,— 

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,— 

Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. 



377 



FORGET THEE?" 



" FORGET THEE ?" 

"Forget thee?" if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day, 

If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay. 

If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power, 

If winged thoughts that flit to thee, — a thousand in an hour. 

If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, — 

If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! 

"Foro-et thee'?" Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune; 
"Forget thee"?" Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon; 
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; 
Thyself forget thine own " dear land" and its " mountains wild and blue. 
Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember' d spot, — 
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot! 

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free, 
For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me; 
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove, 
But let it nurse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; — 
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not. 
Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot ! 



378 







MACAULAY. 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 



Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise ; 
I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, 
When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore in vain 
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. 
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day. 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay 

379 



THE SPANISH AKMADA. 

Ilcr crew hath seen Castile's bhick fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, 

At earliest twUight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ; 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; 

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. 

Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall ; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall ; 

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. 

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; 

Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound the drums ; 

His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, 

For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells. 

As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. 

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, 

And underneath liis deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. 

So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, 

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield: 

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, 

And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. 

Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids ; 

Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw your blades : 

Thou sun, shine on her joyously-r-ye breezes, waft her wide ; 

Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride. 

Tlie freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy fold, 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold ; 
Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; 
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread ; 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone : it shone on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire ; 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves : 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: 

380 



MACAULAY. 

He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu : 

Eight sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town ; 

And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; 

The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, 

And saw o'erhanging Eichmond Hill the streak of blood-red light. 

Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, 

And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. 

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires ; 

At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spii-es ; 

From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; 

And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; 

And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, 

And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street : 

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, 

As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : 

And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went. 

And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. 

Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; 

High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; 

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, — 

All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang from hill to hill : 

Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales. 

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, 

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height, 

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light. 

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, 

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; 

Till Bel voir' s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 

And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the vnde vale of Trent; 

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile. 

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. 



381 



MOTHERWELL. 
JEANIE MORRISON. 



I've wandered east, I've Avandered west, 

Through niony a weary way; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

"Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, 

Kemerabered evermair. 
382 



MOTHERWELL. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

'When sitting on that bink, 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof. 

What our wee heads could think? 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid pao-e, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 



Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule- weans laughin' said, 

We cleek'd thegither hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran afF to speel the braes — 

The broomy braes o' June? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve ! 

Oh lichtsome days and lang. 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang! 

Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside. 

And hear its waters croon? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood, 

The throssil whusslit sweet; 
C63 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tunc, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn, 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baitli 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

Wlien hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 



I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 

As ye hae been to me? 
Oh! tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ; 
Oh! say gin e'er your heart gi'ows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weaiy lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart. 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper as it rins, 

The luve o' life's young day. 
384 



MOTHERWELL. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I die, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 



THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 



They come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers ; 

They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside. 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ; ' 

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree. 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand. 

And like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously, 

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee : 

And mark how with thine own thin locks, — they now are silvery grey, — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!" 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky. 
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody : 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold ; 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 

385 BB 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth, 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. 

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound; from yonder wood it came; 

The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; — 

Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind 

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; 

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art. 

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart! 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls aAvay, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day. 
When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy 
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky, 
Still mingle music in my dreams as in the days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that hath waxed old ! 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

Stately trees are growing. 
Lusty winds are blowing. 
And mighty rivers flowing 

On, for ever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lusty spirits blowing. 
As mighty fancies flowing 

On, for ever on ; 
386 



MOTHERWELL. 

But there has been leave-taking, 
Sorx'ow and heart-breaking, 
And a moan, pale Echo's making, 
For the gone, for ever gone ! 

Lovely stars are gleaming. 
Bearded lights are streaming, 
And glorious suns are beaming 

On, for ever on. 
As lovely eyes Avere gleaming. 
As wondrous lights were streaming, 
As glorious minds were beaming 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering, 
Wailing, and sad wondering; 
For graves grow fat with plundering 

The gone, for ever gone! 

We see great eagles soaring, 
We hear deep oceans roaring. 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, for ever on. 
As lofty ones were soaring, 
As sonorous voices roaring. 
And as sparkling wits were pouring 

On, for ever on ; — 
But, pinions have been shedding, 
And voiceless darkness spreading, 
Since a measure Death's been treading 

O'er the gone, for ever gone! 

Every thing is sundering. 

Every one is wondering. 

And this huge globe goes thundering 

On, for ever on. 
But, 'mid this weary sundering. 
Heart-breaking and sad wondering, 
3S-- 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

And this huge globe's rude thundering 

On, for ever on, 
I would that I were dreaming 
Where little flowers are gleaming, 
And the long green grass is streaming 

O'er the gone, for ever gone! 



S88 



TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OP THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' CUUECH. — TIME -DAYBREAK 

ARTEVELDE (alone). 

There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams! 

What an unreal and fantastic world 

Is going on below! 

Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, 

How many a large creation of the night, 

Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, 

Peopled with busy transitory groups, 

Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd ! 

— If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes 

They should float upward visibly to mine. 

How thick with apparitions were that void ! 

But now the blank and blind profundity 

Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion. 

— I have not slept. I am to blame for that. 

Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food, 

Must needs impair that promptitude of mind, 

And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him 

Who leads a multitude, is past all price. 

I think I could redeem an hour's repose 

Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet. 

The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage, 

Play with a pleasing freshness on my face. 

I will enfold my cloak about my liral)s. 

And lie where I shall front them; — here, I think. 

[//e lies (lowii. 
3e9 



ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

If this were over — ^blessed be the calm 
That comes to me at last! A friend in need 
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent, 
Brings slumber— bountifully— whereupon 
We f^ive her sleepy welcome — if all this 
Were honourably over — Adrianna — 

[Falls asleep, but starts up almost instanth/. 
I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear, 
Upon the road from Bruges, — or did I dream? 
No ! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed. 

VAN DEN BOSCH (witkoilt). 

Wliat ho ! Van Artevelde ! 

ARTEVELDE. 

Who calls'? 
VAN DEN BOSCH (entering). 

'Tis I. 
Thou art an early riser, like myself; 
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? 

ARTEVELDE. 

"Wliat are thy tidings? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nay, what can they be? 
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book; 
So many to the pest-house carried in, 
So many to the dead-house carried out. 
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Be quiet ; listen to the westerly wind, 
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog 
That hears the house is stirring — nothing else- 

ARTEVELDE. 

No, — now — I hear it not myself — no — nothing. 
The city's hum is up — but ere you came 
'Twas audible enough. 

390 



iQ 



TAYLOR. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

In God's name what? 

ARTEVELDE. 

A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bru'^es. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Why, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce ! 

If once he reach the city we are lost. 

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. 

What terms so bad they would not swallow now? 

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once 

To cross his way. 

ARTEVELDE. 

And send him back to Bruges? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Send him to hell — and that's a better place. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Nay, softly, Van den Bosch ; let war be war, 
But let us keep its ordinances. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Tush ! 
I say, but let them see him from afar. 
And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot. 
Be on our Avay to Bruges. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Not so, not so; 
My rule of governance has not been such 
As e'er to issue in so foul a close. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

What matter by what rule thou may'st have govern'd ? 
Think' St thou a hundred thousand citizens 
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws 
Because thou'st ruled them justly? 

ARTEVELDE. 

It may be 
That such a hope is mine. 
391 




VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Then thou art mad, 
And I must take this matter on myself. [/s going. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Hold, Van den Bosch ; I say this shall not be. 
392 



TAYLOR. 

I must be madder than I think I am 
Ere I shall yield up my authority, 
Which I abuse not, to be used by thee. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

This comes of lifting dreamers into power. 
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of flimino 
The people, but to pave the way for peace 
Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges. 
Once and again I warn thee that thy life 
Hangs by a thread. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Why, know I not it does? 

What hath it hung by else since Utas' eve? 

Did I not by mine own advised choice 

Place it in jeopardy for certain ends ^ 

And what were these? To prop thy tottering state' 

lo float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed, 

To cater for our joint security ? 

No, verily ; not such my high ambition. 

I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal ; 
I looked to give it victory and freedom; 
And working to that end, by consequence 
From one great peril did deliver thee— 
Not for the love of thee or of thy life. 
Which I regard not, but the city's service ; 
And if for that same service it seem good,' 
I will expose thy life to equal hazard. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Thou wilt? 

ARTEVELDE. 

I will. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Oh, Lord ! to hear him speak, 
What a most mighty emperor of puppets 
Is this that I have brought upon the board ! 
But how if he that made it should unmake? 
393 



ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 



ARTEVELDE. 



Unto His sovereignty who truly made me 

With infinite humility I bow! 

Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch; 

Part of the curious clock-work of this world. 

We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns ; 

And if by twitches moved from wires we see not, 

I were to toss .thee from this steeple's top, 

I should be but the instrument — no more — 

The tool of that chastising Providence 

Which doth exalt the lowly, and abase 

The violent and proud: but let me hope 

There's no such task appointed me to-day. 

Thou passest in the world for worldly wise: 

Then, seeing we must sink or swim together, 

What can it profit thee, in this extreme 

Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus 

For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate, 

As of necessity bound up with mine. 

Must needs partake my cares: let that suffice 

To put thy pride to rest till better times. 

Contest — more reasonably wrong — a prize 

More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Tush, tush. Van Artevelde ; thou talk'st and talk'st. 

And honest burghers think it wondrous fine. 

But thou might' St easilier with that tongue of thine 

Persuade yon smoke to fly i' th' face o' the wind, 

Than talk away my wit and understanding. 

I say yon herald shall not enter here. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I know, sir, no man better, where my talk 
Is serviceable singly, where it needs 
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware, 
And brave not mine authority too far. 
394 



TAYLOR. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Hast thou authority to take my life ? 
What is it else to let yon herald in 
To bargam for our blood? 

ARTEVELDE. 

Thy life again ! 
Why, what a very slave of life art thou ! 
Look round about on this once populous town ; 
Not one of these innumerous house-tops 
But hides some spectral form of misery, 
Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother, 
Some aged man that in his dotage scolds, 
Not knowing Avhy he hungers, some cold corse 
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it. 
Look round, and answer what thy life can be 
To tell for more than dust upon the balance. 
I, too, would live — I have a love for life — 
But rather than to live to charge my soul 
With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these, 
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound 
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

I'd like to see thee do it. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I know thou wouldst; 
But for the present be content to see 
My less precipitate descent ; for lo ! 
There comes the herald o'er the hill. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Beshrew thee ! 
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this. 

\_He folloivs, and the scene closes. 



395 



ERNESTO. 



ERNESTO. 



Thoughtfully by the side Ernesto sate 

Of her whom, in his earlier youth, with heart 

Then first exulting in a dangerous hope, 

Dearer for danger, he had rashly loved. 

That was a season when the untravell'd spirit, 

Not way-Avorn nor way-wearied, nor with soil 

Nor stain upon it, lions in its path 

Saw none — or seeing, Mith triumphant trust 

In its resources and its pov/ers, defied — 

Perverse to find provocatives in warnings, 

And in disturbance taking deep delight. 

By sea or land he still saw rise the storm 

With a gay courage, and through broken lights, 

Tempestuously exalted, for a while 

His heart ran mountains high, or to the roar 

Of shatter'd forests sang superior songs 

With kindling, and what might have seem'd to some, 

Auspicious energy ; — by land and sea 

He was way-founder'd — trampled in the dust 

His many-colour'd hopes — his lading rich 

Of precious pictures, bright imaginations. 

In absolute shipwreck to the wind and waves 

Suddenly render' d — 

By her side he sate : 
But time had been between and wov'n a veU 
Of seven years' separation ; and the past 
AVas seen with soften'd outlines, like the face 
Of Nature through a mist. What was so seen? 
In a short hour, there sitting with his eyes 
Fix'd on her face, observant though abstracted, 
396 



TAYLOR. 

Lost partly in the past, but mixing still 
With his remembrances the life before him, 
He traced it all — the pleasant first accost. 
Agreeable acquaintance, growing friendship. 
Love, passion at the culminating point 
When in a sleeping body through the night 
The heart would lie awake, reverses next 
Gnawing the mind with doubtfulness, and last 
The affectionate bitterness of love refused. 
— Rash had he been by choice — by wanton choice 
Deliberately rash ; but in the soil 
Where grows the bane, grows too the antidote ; 
The same young-heartedness which knew not fear 
Renounced despondency, and brought at need 
With its results, resources. In his day 
Of utter condemnation, there remain'd 
Appeal to that imaginative power 
Which can commute a sentence of sore pain 
For one of softer sadness, which can bathe 
The broken spirit in the balm of tears. 
And more and better to after days ; for soon 
Upsprang the mind within him, and he knew 
The affluence and the growth which nature yields 
After an overflow of loving grief 
Hence did he deem that he could freely draw 
A natural indemnity. The tree 
Sucks kindlier nurture from a soil enrich'd 
By its own fallen leaves ; and man is made 
In heart and spirit from deciduous hopes 
And things that seem to perish. Thro' the stress 
And fever of his suit, from first to last. 
His pride (to call it by no nobler name) 
Had been to love with reason and with truth, 
To carry clear thro' many a turbulent trial 
A perspicacious judgment and true tongue. 
And neither with fair word nor partial thought 
To flatter whom he loved. If pride it was 
397 



ERNESTO. 

To love and not to flatter, by a breath 

Of purer aspiration was he moved 

To suffer and not blame, grieve, not resent; 

And when all hopes that needs must knit with self 

Their object, were irrevocably gone. 

Cherish a mild commemorative love, 

Such as a mourner might unblamed bestow 

On a departed spirit — 

Once again 
He sate beside her — for the last time now. 
And scarcely was she alter'd ; for the hours 
Had led her lightly down the vale of life, 
Dancing and scattering roses, and her face 
Seem'd a perpetual daybreak, and the woods, 
Where'er she rambled, echoed through their aisles 
The music of a laugh so softly gay 
That spring with all her songsters and her songs 
Knew nothing like it. But how changed was he! 
Care and disease and ardours unrepress'd. 
And labours unremitted, and much grief. 
Had written their death-warrant on his brow. 
Of this she saw not all — she saw but little — 
That which she could not choose but see she saw; 
And o'er her sunlit dimples and her smiles 
A shadow fell — a transitory shade ; 
And when the phantom of a hand she clasped 
At parting scarce responded to her touch. 
She sigh'd — but hoped the best. 

When winter came 
She sigh'd again ; — for Avith it came the word 
That trouble and love had found their place of rest 
And slept beneath Madeira's orange groves. 



398 



MOIR. 



CASA WAPPY.* 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The reahns where sorrow dare not come, 

Where life is joy? 
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss* we mete our death, 

Casa Wappy! 

Despair was in our last farewell. 

As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die ; 
Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathomed agony, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Thou wert a vision of delight 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven : 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self than a part 
Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 

Casa Wappy! 

* Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet-name of an infant son of the poet, 
snatched away after a very brief illness. 

399 



CASA WAPPy. 

Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 

'Twas cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine 

Beloved boy! 
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
That found thee prostrate in decay, 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 

Casa Wappy! 



Gem of our hearth, our household pride. 

Earth's undefded ; 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 

Our dear, sweet child! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; . 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 

Casa "Wappy! 

Do what I may, go where I will, 

Thou mect'st my sight; 
There dost thou glide before me still — 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 

Casa Wappy ! 



Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

In buoyant health : 
I see thine eye's deep violet light, 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright. 
Thy clasping arms so round and white, 

Casa Wappy! 
400 



MOIR. 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat, thy bow, 
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 

But where art thou? 
A corner holds thine empty chair, 
Thy playthings idly scattered there. 
But speak to us of our despair, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Even to the last thy every word — 

To glad, to grieve — 
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 

On summer's eve ; 
In outward beauty undecayed. 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. 
And like the rainbow thou didst fade, 

Casa Wappy ! 

We mourn for thee when blind blank night 

The chamber fills; 
We pine for thee when morn's first light 

Reddens the hills : 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All, to the wall-flower and wild pea, 
Are changed — we saw the world through thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

• 
And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 

Of casual mirth, 

It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 

An inward birth : 

We miss thy small step on the stair; 

We miss thee at thine evening prayer! 

All day we miss thee, everywhere, 

Casa Wappy! 

401 



CASA WAPPy. 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 

In life's spring bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below, 

'J'he silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree, 
The cuckoo and '• the busy bee" 
Return — but with them bring not thee, 
'' Casa Wappy! 

'Tis so; but can it be (while flowers 

Revive again) 
Man's doom, in death that we and ours 

For aye remain "? 
Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
The grass renewed, should yearly wave, 
Yet God forget our child to save? — 

Casa Wappy ! 

It cannot be : for were it so 

Thus man could die. 
Life were a mockery. Thought were woe. 

And Truth a lie ; 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain. 
Religion frenzy, Virtue vain. 
And all our hopes to meet again, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Then be to us, O' dear, lost child ! 

With beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ; 
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward patli, the seraph's road, 
That led thee back from man to God, 

Casa Wappy ! 
402 



MOIR. 

Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair, 

Fond, fairest boy. 
That heaven is God's, and thou art there, 

With him in joy : 
There past are death and all its woes. 
There beauty's stream forever flows, 
And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell, 

Thus torn apart: 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 

Casa Wappy! 



403 




TRENCH. 
THE SPILT PEARLS. 

His courtiers of the Caliph crave, — 
"Oh, say how this may be, 

Tliat of thy slaves, this Ethiop slave 
Is best beloved by thee? 

" For he is ugly as the Night ; 

But when has ever chose 
A nightingale, for its delight, 

A hueless, scentless rose?" 

The Caliph, then : — " No features fair. 

Nor comely mien, are his ; 
Love is the beauty he doth wear, 

And Love his glory is. 



"When once a camel of my train 
There fell in narrow street, 

From broken casket roU'd amain 
Rich pearls before my feet. 
404 . 



TRENCH. 

" I winking to the slaves that I 
Would freely give them these, 

At once upon the spoil they fly, 
The costly boon to seize. 

"One only at my side remained — 

Beside this Ethiop none : 
He, moveless as the steed he reined, 

Behind me sat alone. 

" ' What will thy gain, good fellow, be. 

Thus lingering at my side T 
/My king, that I shall faithfully 
Have guarded thee,' he cried. 

"True servant's title he may wear 

He only who has not, 
For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er. 

His Lord himself forgot." 

So thou alone dost walk before 
Thy God with perfect aim, 

From Him desiring nothing more 
Beside Himself to claim. 

For if thou not to Him aspire. 

But to His gifts alone. 
Not Love, but covetous desire, 

Has brought thee to His throne. 

While such thy prayer, it climbs above 

In vain — the golden key 
Of God's rich treasure-house of love, 

Thine own will never be 



405 



EMERSON. 

THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly, dozing, humble-bee, 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Kique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 
Let me chase thy waving lines; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
Swimmer through the waves of air ; 
Voyager of light and noon ; 
Epicurean of June ; 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days. 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall. 
And, with softness touching all, 
Tints the human countenance 
With a colour of romance. 
And, infusing subtle heats. 
Turns the sod to violets, 
Thou, in sunny solitudes, 
Rover of the underwoods, 
406 



EMERSON. 

The green ^ilence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours. 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers 
Of gulfs of sweetness Avithout bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavoury or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 
But violets and bilberry bells. 
Maple-sap, and daffodels. 
Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky. 
Columbine with horn of honey. 
Scented fern and agrimony, 
Clover, catch-fly, adder's-tongue, 
And brier roses, dwelt among ; 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
Seeing only what is fair. 
Sipping only what is sweet. 
Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
407 



HOFFMANN. 

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 

Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 

Does the wine our goblets gleam in, 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in." 
Then fill to-night with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
Of Time through Life's dominions, 
We here awhile would now beguile 
The grey-beard of his pinions 

To drink to-night with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker s biim, 
And break on the lips Avhile meeting. 

But since delight can't tempt the wight, 

Nor fond regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 
Nor sober Friendship stay him, 

We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
•And break on the lips while meeting. 



408 



MORRIS. 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spi'ead o'er land and sea. 

And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak. 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend ! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
And still thy branches bend. 
409 



POETRY. 

Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And woodman, leave the spot ; 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



POETRY. 



To me the world's an open book, 

Of sweet and pleasant poetry ; 
I read it in the running brook 

That sings its way towards the sea. 
It whispers in the leaves of trees, 

The swelling grain, the waving grass, 
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze 

That crisps the wavelets as they pass. 

The flowers below, the stars above, 

In all their bloom and brightness given. 
Are, like the attributes of love. 

The poetry of earth and heaven. 
Thus Nature's volume, read aright. 

Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, 
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, 

And all the world with poetry. 



410 




HOYT. 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 



The blessed morn has come again; 

The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window pane, 

And seems to say 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain, 

Away, away! 

411 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound 

Along the air, 
Of winds upon their battle-ground. 

But gently there, 
The snow is falling, — all around 

Plow fail' — how fair ! 



The jocund fields would masquerade ; 

Fantastic scene ! 
Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely giado . 

Have cast their green. 
And joined the revel, all arrayed 

So white and clean. 



E'en the old posts, that hold the bars 

And the old gate. 
Forgetful of their Avintry wars. 

And age sedate. 
High capped, and plumed, like white hussars, 

Stand there in state. 



The drifts are hanging by the sill, 

The eaves, the door ; 
The hay-stack has become a hill ; 

All covered o'er 
The waggon, loaded for the mill 

The eve before. 



Maria brings the water-pail, 

But Where's the well ! 
Like magic of a fairy tale, 

Most strange to tell, 
All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail ! 

How deep it fell! 

412 



HOYT. 

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide ; 

The axe, the log. 
The kennel of that friend so tried, 

(The old watch-dog,) 
The grindstone standing by its side. 

All now incog. , 



The bustling cock looks out aghast 

From his high shed ; 
No spot to scratch him a repast 

Up curves his head, 
Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, 

And back to bed. 



Old drowsy dobbin, at the call. 

Amazed, awakes ; 
Out from the window of his stall 

A view he takes ; 
While thick and faster seem to fall 

The silent flakes. 



The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime 

Their morning moan ; 
Like Memnon's music of old time 

That voice of stone ! 
So marbled they — and so sublime 

Their solemn tone. 



Good Ruth has called the younker folk 

To dress below ; 
Full welcome was the word she spoke, 

Down, down they gc. 
The cottage quietude is broke, — 

The snow ! — the snow ! 
413 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

Now rises from around the fire 

A pleasant strain ; 
Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire ! 

And ye profane ! 
A hymn to the Eternal Sire 

Goes up again. 



The patriarchal Book divine, 

Upon the knee, 
Opes where the gems of Judah shine, 

(Sweet minstrelsie !) 
How soars each heart with each fair line, 

Oh God, to Thee! 



Around the altar low they bend, 

Devout in prayer ; 
As snows upon the roof descend, 

So angels there 
Come down that household to defend 

With gentle care. 



Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze; 

The buckwheat heaps ; 
Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise. 

Sweet Susan steeps ; 
The old round stand her nod obeys. 

And out it leaps. 

Unerring presages declare 

The banquet near ; 
Soon busy appetites are there ; 

And disappear 
The glories of the ample fare, 

With thanks sincere. 
414 



HOYT. 

Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh 

From copse and spray, 
(Sweet strangers ! with the winter's sky 

To pass away ;) 
And gather crumbs in full supply, 

For all the day. 



Let now the busy hours begin : 

Out rolls the churn ; 
Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in 

The brush to burn ; 
Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, 

'Till night's return. 



To delve his threshing John must hie ; 

His sturdy shoe 
Can all the subtle damp defy ; 

How wades he through ! 
While dainty milkmaids slow and shy, 

His track pursue. 



Each to the hour's allotted care ; 

To shell the corn ; 
The broken harness to repair ; 

The sleigh t' adorn ; 
As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair. 

Speeds on the morn. 



While mounts the eddying smoke amain 

From many a hearth. 
And all the landscape rings again 

With rustic mirth ; 
So gladsome seems to every swain 

The snowy earth. 

415 




SIMMS. 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 



Blessings on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth, 
Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; 
Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom 
Wliich the bliss for ever gladdens, of the region whence they come ; 
Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care. 
And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair; 
Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh, 
And a hope that in existence, finds each hour a luxury; 

416 



SIMMS. 

Going singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as they go, 
That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe ; 
In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies, 
Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies ; 
Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store, 
All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before ; , 
All the future, but a region, where the happy serving thought. 
Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged hunter caught ; 
Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight. 
Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; 
As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, 
Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. 
Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, 
Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers; 
Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare. 
Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care. 
How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove. 
Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! 
We are in the shouting comrades, shaking ofi^ the load of years. 
Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts and agonies and tears ; 
We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts. 
Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts 
What an image of the vigour and the glorious grace we kncAv, 
When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single bound we grew ! 
Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow. 
In our eyes the life and gladness — of our blood the overflow. 
Bless the mother of the urchin ! in his form we see her truth : 
He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; 
Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair. 
Nor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair : 
Bless the mother of the young one! he hath blended in his grace. 
All the hope and joy and beauty, kindling once in either face ! 

Oh ! the happy faith of children ! that is glad in all it sees. 
And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries ; 
In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest, 
Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest; 

417 DD 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 

Lacking every creed yet having faith so large in all they see, 
That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. 
What trim fancies bring them flowers ; what rare spirits walk their wood, 
VV'hat a wondrous world the moonlight harbours of the gay and good! 
Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, 
And the li'ditning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill : 
'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, 
Broods beside the shutter'd windows, and with gentle love complains ; 
And hovi^ wooing, how exalting, Avith the richness of her dyes. 
Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch along the skies. 
With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight, 
How 'twere easy for the sad one to .escape to worlds of light! 
Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream. 
That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! 
Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth, 
Joy is born of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth. 



418 



WILLIS. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The shadows lay along Broadway — 
'Twas near the twilight-tide — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
And Honour charmed the air ; 

And all astir looked kind on her, 
And called her good as fair — 

For all God ever gave to her 
She kept with chary care. 

She kept Avith care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true — 

For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
And the rich came not to woo — 

But honoured well are charms to sell 
If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair — 

A slight girl, lily-pale; 
And she had Unseen company 

To make the spirit quail — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn. 

And nothing could avail. 
419 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman's heart gave way! — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
By man is curst alway ! 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. 



I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon. 
And the ^Egean wind had dropped asleep 
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles 
Of Salamis and ^gina lay hung 
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 
I had climbed up th' Acropolis at morn, 
And hours had fled as time will in a dream 
Amid its deathless ruins — for the air 
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, 
And they walk with you ! As it sultrier grew, 
I laid me down within a shadow deep 
Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 
And in an absent idleness of thought 
I scrawled upon the smooth and marble base. 
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there '? 
The name of a sweet child I kneiv at Borne I 

I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night 
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon. 
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirred tent. 
Had witched me from my slumber. I arose. 
And silently stole forth, and by the brink 
420 



WILLIS. 

Of golden "Pactolus," where bathe his waters 
The bases of Cybele's columns fair, 
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood 
I mused upon the storied past awhile, 
Watching the moon, that with the same mild eye 
Had looked upon the mighty Lybian kings 
Sleeping around me — Croesus, who had heaped 
Within the mouldering portico his gold, 
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 
Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then 
I loitered up the valley to a small 
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* 
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe 
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye 
It seemed as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
" The angel of the church of Sardis" still ! 
And I again passed onward, and as dawn 
Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down, 
Weary and sad, beside the river's brink. 
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn. 
Wrote with my fingers in the golden "sands." 
Tell me, O memory ! what wrote I there ? 
The name of the sweet child I kneiv at Rome ! 

The dust is old upon my " sandal-shoon," 
And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved 
From wild America to spicy Ind, 
And worshipped at innumerable shrines 
Of beauty, and the painter's art, to me. 
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, 
And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul, 
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored 



* " Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their gar- 
ments; and they shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy." — Rkv. 
iii. 4. 

421 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. 

My memory with thoughts that can allay 
Fever and sadness ; and when life gets dim, 
And I am overladen in my years, 
Minister to me. But when wearily 
The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes 
Open but seeing not, and senses all 
Lying awake within their chambers fine. 
Thought settles like a fountain, clear and calm- 
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem. 
Tell me, O memory ! what shines so fair ? 
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! 



422 



ALFORD. 

HYMN TO THE SEA. 

Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, . 
Thou old companion of the circling earth? 
And having marked with keen poetic sight 

Ere beast or happy bird 

Through the vast silence stirred, 
Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night? 

Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves 
Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves 
Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; 

Whose ancient awful form, 

With inly tossing storm. 
Unquiet heavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. 

Till the life-giving Spirit moved above 
The face of the waters, with creative love 
Warming the hidden seeds of infant light : 

What time the mighty Word 

Through thine abyss was heard, 
And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright. 

Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say, 
In the old prime were fashioned in the day. 
And therefore thou delightest evermore 

With her to lie, and play 

The summer hours away. 
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. 

She is married, a matron long ago, 
With nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 

423 




Each year; but thee no husband dares to tame; 
Thy wild will is thine own. 
Thy sole and virgin throne — 
Thy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. 



Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee ; — 
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea 

Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise; 
While the round vault above, 
In vast and silent love, 
I- gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes. 
424 



ALFORD. 

All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, 
Counting thy weary minutes all alone ; 

Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, 
Deep blue, ere yet the sun 
His day-work hath begun, 
Under the opening windows of the golden sky. 

The spirit of the mountain ■ looks on thee 
Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee 
Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie 

Storm-mists of infant cloud, 

With a sight-baffling shroud 
Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. 

Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high 
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky. 
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast. 

Whose stitf breath, whistling shrill, 

Pierces with deadly chill 
The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered mast. 

Foam-white along the border of the shore 
Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar; 
"Wliile o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide 

Cloaked figures, dim and grey, 

Through the thick mist of spray, 
Watching for some struck vessel in the boiling tide. 

Daughter and dai'ling of remotest eld — 
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld; 
His arm is feeble aod his eye is dim — 

He tells old tales again — 

He wearies of long pain ; — 
Thou art as at the first : thou journeyedst not with him. 



425 



THACKERAY. 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 



This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew. 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern. 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 



Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 
426 



THACKERAY. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terrk still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table. 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter ; nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Tekre, waiter, pray ?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race ?" 
"What will Monsieur require for dinner T' 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

"Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 



My old accustomed corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoijhi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, giim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for 15ouillabaisse. 
427 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 



Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early clays, here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places. 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord! The world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret floMing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 



Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 



I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you dovni and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse. 
428 



THACKERAY. 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done ; the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell : 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme. 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time. 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good-night! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain than those of men ; 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive. 

Not less nor more as men than boys ; 

With grizzled beards at forty-five, 
As erst at twelve in corduroys, 
42'- 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

And if in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 

Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 
May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, a? in the school, 

I'd say, how fate may change and shift; 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design^ 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. 

Be weeping at her darling's grave ? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so, 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 

Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 
His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
And longing passion unfulfilled. 
430 



THACKERAY. 

Amen ! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 

Although the head with cares be bent, 
And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part. 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can : 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days : 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men. 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth. 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 

To men of gentle will. 



431 




TENNYSON. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



Vou must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

432 



TENNYSON. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, 1 gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen, o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. 

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little EfRe shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd-lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

433 E B 




NEW-YEAR S EVE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year: 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day : 
Beneath the hawthorn on the Green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's "Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high: 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree. 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And tJie swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,— 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

434 



TENNYSON. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the barn upon the hill, 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the Avorld is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn .shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and Avayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, — you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. 
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore. 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Eihe come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, Avhen I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

43.5 




CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

I low sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! 
And blessings on his Avhole life long, until he meet me there! 
blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

436 



TENNYSON. 

He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin : 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the Avild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pi'ayed for both, and so I felt resign'd. 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in ray bed. 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
And up the valley came again the music on the Avind. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine.' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
15ut all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

437 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine- 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 

And Avhat is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado' 

P'or ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— 

And there to wait a little Avhile till you and Effie come; 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weaiy are at rest. 




438 




MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 



439 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that Ave 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be. 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a- king : 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known: 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere: 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
440 



TENNYSON. 

" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping doAvii 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal' d 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wovmded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard f 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow' d, either hand, 
441 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and clear, and do the thing 
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself"? 
The King is sick, and knows not Avhat he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honour and much fame Avere lost. 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
H2 



TENNYSON. 

"What is it thou hast seen'? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bokl Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, vmtrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow' d of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the snlendour of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen w^here the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 
443 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My Avound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his ai-m. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear " Quick, quick 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash' d his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
444 



TENNYSON. 

The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks wei-e dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands. 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd Avith drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch' d with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
445 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes'J 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Wliich was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many Avays, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou. 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life Avithin the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island- valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
UG 




Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
447 



MOETE D' ARTHUR. 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



448 




EDWARD GRAY 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart?" she said; 

"And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" 



Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 

" Sweet Emma Moi'eland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray 
449 



EDWARD GRAY. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

"Shy she was, and I thought her cold; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words 1. said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day: 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

"There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' 

"Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray!' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

"Bitterly wept I over the stone: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray!" 



450 




THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 
451 



THE GOOSE. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbours; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 
And rested from her labours. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doff'd. 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose Inid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 



It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this Avay and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamour. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together. 
There strode a stranger to tlie door. 

And it was windy weather: 

452 



TENNYSON. 

Pie took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning ; 

"So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and plain. 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again. 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 

And Avhile on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger !" 



453 




Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 
454 



TENNYSON. 

And tlie stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



4r.5 



COOKE. 
FLORENCE VANE. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary. 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
45G 



COOKE. 

And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 

I LOVE to forget ambition. 

And hope, in the mingled thought 
Of valley, and wood, and meadow. 

Where, whilom, my spirit caught 
Affection's holiest breathings — 

Where under the skies, with mc 
Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking 

From joy's bright Castaly. 

I think of the valley and river, 

Of the old wood bright with blossoms ; 
Of the pure and chastened gladness 

Upspringing in our bosoms. 
I think of the lonely turtle 

So tongued with melancholy ; 
Of the hue of the drooping moonlight, 

And the starlight pure and holy. 
457 



YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 

Of the beat of a heart most tender, 

The sigh of a shell-tinct lip 
As soft as the land-tones wandering 

Far leagues over ocean deep ; 
Of a step as light in its falling 

On the breast of the beaded lea 
As the fall of the faery moonlight 

On the leaf of yon tulip tree. 

I think of these — and the murmur 

Of bii-d, and katydid, 
"Whose home is the grave-yard cypress, 

Whose goblet the honey-reed. 
And then I weep! for Kosalie 

Has gone to her early rest ; 
And the green-lipped reed and the daisy 

Suck sweets from her maiden breast. 



458 







WHITTIER. 



MAUD MULLER. 



Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
459 



MAUD MULLER. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, -when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
460 



WHITTIER. 

Maud JNIuller looked and sighed : " Ah, me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

*' Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unrated clover fell. 

mi 



MAUD MULLEE. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go: 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the way-side well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain : 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the road-side, through the Avail, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein : 

And, gazing down with timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 
4G2 



WHITTIER. 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 



GONE. 



Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows once more with Angel-steps 

The path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend whose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of autumn time 
Has left us, with the flowers. 
4G3 



GONE. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom 

Forewarned us of decay; 
No shadow from the Silent Land 

Fell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down, 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star — 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed — 

Eternal as the sky; 
And like the brook's low song, her voice — 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere, 
To give to Heaven a Shining One, 

Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew ; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one who reads 

A true and holy book : 

The measure of a blessed hymn, 
To which our hearts could move ; 

The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer. 

And by the hearth-fire's light ; 
We pause beside her door to hear 

Once more her sweet " Good-night !" 
464 



WHITTIER. 

There seems a shadow on the day, 

Her smile no longer cheers ; 
A dimness on the stars of night, 

Like eyes that look througli tears. 

Alone unto our Father's will 
One thought hath reconciled ; 

That He whose love exceedeth ours 
Hath taken home His child. 

Fold her, oh Father ! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 

Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong, 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in Goodness strong. 

And, grant that she who, trembling, here 

Distrusted all her powers, 
May welcome to her holier home 

Tlie well beloved of ours. 



462 




POE. 



THE RAVEN. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, Avhile I pondered weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — 
AVhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this ?,nd nothing more." 
46G 



POE. 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I Avished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
P"'or the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came' tapping, tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door ; — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 

4G7 



THE RAVEN. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it vv^ore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no 

craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Eaven wandering from the Nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as "Neverino.^e." 

But the Eaven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttei*ed — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Eaven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

468 



POE. 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath 

sent thee 
Eespite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore" 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up- 
starting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 

4G9 



THE RAVEN: 

,,.1 



Leave my loneliness im broken ! — quit the bust above my door 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



470 




LONGFELLOW. 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 



'AaTzacriT), TpikTiiaTo^. 
I HEARD the trailing gai'ments of the Night 

Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I gaw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 
471 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there. 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

"What man has borne before ; 
Thou layest thy. finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night! 



472 




RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 



The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 
473 



RESIGNATION. 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours, 

Amid these earthly damps; 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
AYhcre she no longer needs our poor jjrotection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk Avith her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 
474 



LONGFELLOW. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
But silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



475 



I^sifc' 




KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 



WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 
476 



LONGFELLOW. 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor. 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 




So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red wine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 
477 



KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HOKN. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomjeus, • 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 

He clutched the golden bowl. 
In which, like a pearl dissolving. 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore. 
For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! 

We must drink to one Saint more!" 



478 




EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



His brow Avas sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 
479 



EXCELSIOR. 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead. 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast i" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 



" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche!" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-i'epeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 



A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 
480 



LONGFELLOW. 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 

Excelsior ! 



481 




TUCKERMAN. 



WEST POINT. 



Wild umbrage far around me clings 
To breezy knoll and hushed ravine, 

And o'er each rocky headland flings 
Its mantle of refreshing green. 

482 



TUCKERMAN. 

The echoes that so boldly rung 

When cannon flashed from steep to steep, 
And F'reedom's airy challenge flung, 

In each romantic valley sleep. 

His counsels here our chieftain breathed, 
Here roved his mild, undaunted eye. 

When yon lone fort with thickets wreathed, 
Held captive Britain's gallant spy. 

Fit home to rear a nation's youth 
By self-control to nerve the wdll. 

Through knowledge gain expansive truth. 
And with high aims life's circle fill. 

How grateful is the sudden change 
From arid pavements to the grass. 

From narrow streets that thousands range, 
To meadows where June's zephyrs pass! 

Beneath the cliffs the river steals 
In darksome eddies to the shore, 

But midway every sail reveals 
Reflected on its crystal floor. 

In tranquil mood the cattle w^alk 
Along the verdant mai'ge to feed, 

While poised upon the mullein stalk 
The chirping red-bird pecks the seed. 

Low murmurs in the foliage bred. 
The clear horizon's azure line, 

Fresh turf elastic to the tread, 
And leafy canopies are thine. 

483 



WEST POINT. 

White fleecy clouds move slowly by, 
HoAv cool their shadows fall to-day! 

A moment on the hills they lie, 
And then like spirits glide away. 

Amid the herbage, yesternight 

His web the cunning spider threw. 

And now, as sparkling diamonds bright. 
It glistens with the pendent dew. 

Gay butterflies dart on and sink 
O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea, 

And from the clover's globe of pink 
Contented hums the downy bee. 

In all his varied beauty glows 

Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart, 
As it were fain to teach repose. 

And lofty confidence impart. 

How vivid to my fancy now. 

Uprise the forms that life redeem ! 

The ardent eye — the open brow. 
And tender smile beside me seem. 



For Nature's presence gathers back 

The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer. 

And as her holy steps we track, 

Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear. 



484 




j'\,y»Jj)il|'^'~' 



HOLMES. 



THE LAST LEAF. 



I SAAv liim once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resonnd 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 
485 



THE LAST LEAF. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruiiing-knife of Time 

Cut him- down, 
Not a better man was found 
]5y the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan. 
And he shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone." 

The mossy mai'bles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom. 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago, — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 
At him here ; 
486 



HOLMES. 

But the old three-cornered hat. 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, — 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bougli 

Where I clintr. 



487 




ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 



This ancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good old times, 
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; 
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and true. 
That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 

488 



HOLMES. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale 

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strencrth should fail. 
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 

'Twas purchased by an English squu-e to please his loviu"- dame 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine. 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine. 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, 

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. 

And then, of course, yovi know what's next — it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayfiower came, — a hundred souls and more, — 
Along Avith all the furniture, to fill their new abodes — 
To judge by what is stUl on hand, at least a hundred loads. 

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve,, the night was closing dim, 
Wlien old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim, 
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword. 
And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board. 

He poured the fiery hollands in — the man that never feared — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; 
And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and pi*ayed, 
All drank as 'twei'e their mother's milk, and not a man afraid ! 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; 
And thei'e the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, 
"Run from the white man when you find he smells of hollands gin!" 

A hundred years, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose ; 
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 

489 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good — poor child, you'll never bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air, 
And if_God bless me— you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ; 
So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! 

r tell you, thei-e was generous warmth in good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul, 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on its towers — 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; 

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; 

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin. 

That dooms one to those dreadful words — "My dear, where have you been V 



Am 







STREET. 



A FOREST NOOK. 



A NOOK Avithin the forest ; ovei'head 
The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, 
Breaking Avhite cloud, lilue sky and sunshine bright, 
Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, 
491 



A rOKEST NOOK. 

And flecks of gold ; a soft cool emerald tint 
Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves 
Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls 
And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand 
Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in 
Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points ; 
The scallop d beech leaf, and the birch's cut 
Into fine ragged edges, interlace: 
"While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts 
Its snowy chalices half-brimm'd with dcAV, 
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves 
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall, 
A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes the earth. 
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays 
Its fluted Avreath beaded beneath Avith drops 
Of richest brown ; the Avild-rose spreads its breast 
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir 
Has dropp'd its dark, long cone. 

The scorching glare 
Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt 
For summer's radiant things ; the butterfly 
Fluttering within and resting on some flower, 
Fans his rich velvet form ; the toiling bee 
Shoots by, with sounding hum and mist-like wings ; 
The robin perches on the bending spray 
With shrill, quick chirp ; and like a flake of fire 
The redbird seeks the shelter of the leaves. 
And now and then a flutter overhead 
In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing 
Coming and going, yet conceal'd from sight. 
A shrill, loud outcry — on yon highest bough 
Sits the gray squirrel, in his burlesque wrath 
Stamping and chattering fiercely : now he drops 
A hoarded nut, then at my smiling gaze 
Buries himself within the foliage. 
The insect tribe are here ; the ant toils on 
With its white burthen ; in its netted Aveb 
4U2 



STREET. 

Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks, 

A close-crouch'd ball, out-darting as a hum 

Tells its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its threads, 

Chains into helplessness the buzzing wings. 

The wood-tick taps its tiny mutHed drum 

To the shrill cricket-fife, and swelling loud, 

The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds. 

Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering airs 

Like gentle respirations, come and go. 

Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf. 

Displaying its white lining underneath, 

And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain 

Of sunshine on the velvet sward below. 

Such nooks as this are common in the Avoods : 

And all these sights and sounds the commonest 

In Nature when she wears her summer prime. 

Yet by them pass not lightly: to the wise 

They tell the beauty and the harmony 

Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. 

That His familiar earth and sky are full 

Of His ineffable power and majesty; 

That in the humble objects, seen too oft 

To be regarded, is such wondrous grace, 

The art of man is vain to imitate ; 

That the low flower our careless foot treads down 

Is a rich shrine of incense delicate, 

And radiant beauty, and that God hath form'd 

All, from the cloud-wreath'd mountain, to the grain 

Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up 

With deepest forethought and severest care. 

And thus these noteless lovely things are types 

Of his perfection and divinity. 



493 . 



EGBERT BEOWNING. 
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA, 

I WONDER do you feel to-day 

As I have felt, since, hand in hand. 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better thi'ough the land, 

This morn of Rome and May ? 

For me, I touched a thought, I know, 
Has tantalised me many times, 

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 
Mocking across our path,) for rhymes 

To catch at and let go. 

Help me to hold it : first it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, 
Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft, 

Where one small orange-cup amassed 

Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 

Among the honey-meal, — and last 
Everywhere on the grassy slope 

I traced it. Hold it fast ! 

The champaign with its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Rome's ghost since her decease. 
491 




Such life there, through such lengths of hours, 
Such miracles performed in play, 

Such primal naked forms of flowers, 
Such letting Nature have her way 

While Heaven looks from its towers. 



How say you? Let us, O my dove, 
Let us be unashamed of soul, 

As earth lies bare to heaven above. 
How is it under our control 

To love or not to love? 
495 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I would that you were all to me, 

You that are just so much, no more — 

Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! 
Where does the fault lie? what the core 

Of the wound, since wound must be? 

I would I could adopt your will. 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 

In life, for good and ill. 

No. I yearn upward — touch you close, 
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, 

Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak, — 

Then the good minute goes. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, 

Onward, whenever light winds blow, 

Fixed by no friendly star? 

Just when I seemed about to learn ! — 
Where is the thread now ? Off again ! 

The old trick! Only I discern — 
Infinite passion and the pain 

Of finite hearts that yearn. 



496 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful EveljTi Hope is dead ; 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
Beginning to die too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think — 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — . 
It was not her time to love : beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was nought to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
497 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — 

Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for takhig you. 

But the time will come, — at last it will, — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, 1 shall say. 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep — 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



498 




ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 



If old Bacchus were the speaker, 

He would tell you, with a sigh, 
Of the Cyprus in this beaker 

I am sipping like a fly, — 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge, 
By queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 
499 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler, 

When the drink is so divine: 
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler 

Would become your Cyprus wine! 
Cyclop' s mouth might plunge aright in, 

While his one eye over-leered — 
Not too large were mouth of Titan, 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 



Pan might dip his head so deep in. 

That his ears alone pricked out. 
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping. 

Each one pointing to his throat : 
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, 
Cry, — " O earth, that thou wouldst grant us 

Spi'ings to keep, of such a taste !" 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to drink ; 
And my lips are pale and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink. 
Since you heard them speak the last time. 

They have faded from their blooms. 
And the laughter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 



Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers 

Crowned the cup, and crowned tlie brow. 
Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of, now? 
Who will fetch from garden-closes 

Some new garlands while I speak, 
That the forehead, crowned Avith roses, 

May strike scarlet down the cheek? 
♦ 500 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Do not mock me! with my mortal, 

Suits no wreath again, indeed ! 
I am sad-voiced as the turtle 

Wliich Anacreon used to feed ; 
Yet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak iu cup of his, — 
So, without a garland, surely 

I may touch the brim of this. 

Go ! — let others praise the Chian ! — 

This is soft as Muses' string — 
This is tawny as Rhea's lion, 

This is rapid as its spring, — 
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, 

Light as ever trod her feet! 
And the brown bees of Hymettus 

Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises, 

Though I sip it like a fly! — 
Ah — but, sipping, — times and places 

Change before me suddenly — 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part, 
So your Cyprus Avine, dear Grecian, 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 



And I think of those long mornings 

Which my thought goes far to seel:, 
When, betwixt the folio's turnings, 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. 
Past the pane, the mountain spreading. 

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, 
While a girlish voice was reading 

Somewhat low for at's and el's. 
601 



WINE OF CYPKUS. 

Then what golden hours were for us! — 

While we sate together there, 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live air! 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines; 
And the rolling anapiestic 

Curled like vapour over shrines! 

Oh, our ^schylus, the thunderous! 

How he drove the bolted breath 
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous 

In the gnarled oak beneath. 
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal. 

Who was born to monarch's place — 
And who made the whole world loyal, 

Less by kingly power than grace. 



Our Euripides, the human — 

With his droppings of warm tears ; 
And his touches of things common, 

Till they rose to touch the spheres! 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's shining goals ! — 
These Avere cup-bearers undying 

Of the wine that's meant for souls. 



And my Plato, the divine one, — 

If men know the gods aright 
By their motions, as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light! — 
And your noble Christian bishops, 

Wlio mouthed grandly the last Greek: 
Though the sponges on their hyssops 

AVere distent with wine — too weak. 
502 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him, 

With his liberal mouth of gold ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old : 
And we both praised Heliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies ; — 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of ladies' eyes. 

Do you mind that deed of Ate 

W^hich you bound me to so fast, — - 
Reading " De Virginitate," 

From the first line to the last? 
How I said at ending, solemn, 

As I turned and looked at you, 
That St. Simeon on the column 

Had had somewhat less to do? 



For we sometimes gently wrangled ; 

Very gently, be it said, — 
Since our thoughts were disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread ! . 
And I charged you with extortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 



For the rest — -a mystic moaning 

Kept Cassandra at the gate. 
With wild eyes the vision shone in — 

And wide nostrils scenting fate. 
And Prometheus, bound in passion 

By brute force to the blind stone, 
Showed us looks of invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 
503 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

And IMcdea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake ; 
And proud ffidipus fate-scorning 

While the cloud came on to break — 
While the cloud came on slow — slower, 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned! — 
But the reader's voice dropped lowei- 

When the poet called him blind! 

Ah, my gossip ! you were older, 

And more learned, and a man ! — 
Yet that shadow — the enfolder 

Of your quiet eyelids — ran 
Both our spirits to one level. 

And I turned from hill and lea, 
And the summer-sun's green revel, — 

To your eyes that could not see. 

Now Christ bless you with the one light 

Which goes shining night and day! 
May the flowers which grow in sunlight 

Shed their fragrance in your Avay! 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine. 
When we two sate in the chamber 

And the poets poured us wine ? 



So, to come back to the drinking 

Of this Cyprus, — it is well — 
But those memories, to my thinking, 

Make a better o?nomel ; 
And Avhoever be the speaker, 

None can murmur with a sigh — 
That, in drinking from that beaker, 

I am si[)ping like a fly. 
504 




KINGSLEY. 

THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing down to the west, 

Away to the west as the sun went down ; 

Each thought of the woman Avho loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town : 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And here's little to earn, and many to keep, 

Though the harbour bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
While the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
And the harbour bar be moaning. 



Three corpses lie out on the shining sands. 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, 

505 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

For tliosc who Avill never come home to the town. 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep. 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

"Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee ;" 
The western wind was wild and dank wd' foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
O' drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
The cruel, crawling foam. 
The cruel, hungry foam. 
To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee. 
506 



KINGSLEY. 



THE DAY OF THE LORD. 

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand ! 

Its storms roll up the sky : 
A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold ; 

All dreamers toss and sigh ; 
The night is darkest before the daAvn — 
When the pain is sorest the child is born, 

And the Day of the Lord is at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 

Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 
Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old — 

Come down and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
To the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — . 

Famine, and Plague, and War ; 
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, 

Gather, and fall in the snare ! 
Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves, 
Crawl to the battle-field — sneak to your graves, 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, 

While the Lord of all ages is here? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

And those who can suffer, can dare. 
Each age of gold was an iron age too. 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
507 



AYTOUN. 

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

I. 
Sound the fife, and cry the slogan — 

Let the pibroch shake the air 
With its wild triumphal music, 

Worthy of the freight we bear. 
Let the ancient hills of Scotland 

Hear once more the battle-song 
Swell within their glens and valleys 

As the clansmen march along! 
Never from the field of combat, 

Never from the deadly fray. 
Was a nobler trophy carried 

Than we bring with us to-day; 
Never since the valiant Douglas 

On his dauntless bosom bore 
Good King Robert's heart — the priceless- 

To our dear Redeemer's shore! 
Lo! we bring with us the hero — 

Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme, 
Crowned as best beseems a victor 

From the altar of his fame ; 
Fresh and bleeding from the battle 

Whence his spirit took its flight, 
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 

And the thunder of the fight ! 
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 

As we march o'er moor and lea I 
Is there any here will venture 

To bewail our dead Dundee? 
508 



AYTOUN. 

Let the widows of the traitors 

Weep until their eyes are dim ! 
Wail ye may full well for Scotland — 

Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
See! above his glorious body 

Lies the royal banner's fold — 
See ! his valiant blood is mingled 

With its crimson and its gold. 
See how calm he looks and stately, 

Like a wari'ior on his shield, 
Waiting till the flush of morning 

Breaks along the battle-field ! 
See — Oh never more, my comrades. 

Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden with its inward lightning, 

As the hour of fight drew nigli ! 
Never. shall we hear the voice that, 

Clearer than the trumpet's call, 
Bade us strike for King and Country, 

Bade us win the field, or fall! 



On the heights of Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn our army lay : 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way; 
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, 

And the Pass was wa-apped in gloom, 
When the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans. 

And our bonnets down w-e drew, 
And we felt our broadswords' edges, 

And Ave proved them to be true ; 
And we prayed the prayer of soldier.', 

And we cried the gathering-cry, 
501) 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, 

And we swore to do or die! 
Then our leader rode before us 

On his war-horse black as night — 
Well the Cameronian rebels 

Knew that charger in the fight! — 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 
And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence — 
" Soldiers ! I have sworn a' vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 

On Schchallion's lofty brow, 
Either Ave shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Graemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his Country and King James! 
Think upon the Royal Martyr- 
Think of what his race endure — 
Think on him whom butchers murder'd 

On the field of Magus Muir: — 
By his sacred blood I charge ye, 

By the ruined hearth and shrine — 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine — 
Strike this day as if the anvil 

Lay beneath your blows the while, 
Be they Covenanting traitors, 

Or the brood of false Argyle! 
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; 
Let them tell their pale Convention 
How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honour 

Is not to be bought nor sold. 
That we scorn their prince's anger 
510 



AYToinsr. 

As we loathe his foreign gold. 
Strike! and when the fight is over 

If you look in vain for me, 
Where the dead are lying thickest 

Search for him that was Dundee!' 



Loudly then the hills re-echoed 

With our answer to his call, 
But a deeper echo sounded 

In the bosoms of us all. 
For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 

Not a man Avho heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, 

And they harder drew their breath; 
For their souls were strong within them. 

Stronger than the grasp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 

Sounding in the Pass below, 
And tlie distant tramp of horses. 

And the voices of the foe; 
Down we crouched amid the bracken. 

Till the Lowland ranks draw near. 
Panting like the hounds in summer. 

When they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerging, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 

Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
Through the scattered wood of birches. 

O'er the broken ground and heath, 
Wound the long battalion slowly. 

Till they gained the field beneath ; 
Then we bounded from our covert. — 
511 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

Judge how looked the Saxons then. 
When they saw the rugged mountain 

Start to life with armed men ! 
Like a tempest down the ridges 

Swept the hurricane of steel, 
Rose the slogan of Macdonald — 

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel ! 
Vainly sped the withering volley 

'Mongst the foremost of our band — 
On we poured until we met them, 

Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
Horse and man went down like drift-wood 

When the floods are black at Yule, 
And their carcasses are whirling 

In the Garry's deepest pool. 
Horse and man went down before us — 

Living foe there tarried none 
On the field of Killiecrankie, 

When that stubborn fight was done! 

IV. 

And the evening star was shining 

On Schehallion's distant head. 
When we wiped our bloody broadswords, 

And returned to count the dead. 
There we found him gashed and gory, 

Stretched upon the cumbered plain. 
As he told us where to seek him. 

In the thickest of the slain. 
And a smile was on his visage, 

For within his dying ear 
Pealed the joyful note of triumph. 

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: 
So, amidst the battle's thunder, 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, 
In the glory of his manhood 

Passed the spirit of the Graeme! 
512 



AYTOUN. 



V. 



Open wide the vaults of Athol, 

Where the bones of heroes rest — 
Open wide the hallowed portals 

To receive another guest ! 
Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 

Than outlive the land's disgrace! 
O thou lion-hearted warrior ! 

Reck not of the after-time : 
Honour may be deemed dishonour, 

Loyalty be called a crime. 
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 

Of the noble and the true, 
Hands that never failed their country, 

Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet 

Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not boast a braver 

Chieftain than our own Dundee ! 



513 




DAVIS. 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 

Baltimore is a sea-port in South Munster, and was plundered by a band of Algerincs in the 
night of June 20th, 1631, under the guidance of Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman. 



The summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles, 
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles 
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird, 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard. 



iI4 



DAVIS. 

The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ; 
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray, — 
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er — 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. 
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. 
So still the night, these two long, barques, round Dunashad that glide 
Must trust their oars, methinks.not few, against the ebbing-tide — 
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge tliem to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street. 

And these must be the lover's friends, Avith gently gliding feet — 

A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! — " The roof is in a flame !" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and damp — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, 

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson sha^vl — 

The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar— ^ 

Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching M'ild ; 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; 
But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel. 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore. 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing — 
They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town, — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from AfFadown ; 

515 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 

They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, 
And on the strewed and trami^led beach awhile they wildly went, — 
Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, — 

This boy Avill bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. 

Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; 

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 

Tlie maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — 

She's safe — she's dead — she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai. 

And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, 

She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band. 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen — 
'Tis Ilackett of Dungarvan, — he, who steered the Algerine! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — 
Some muttered of Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er — 
Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 



516 




BULWER LYTTON. 



EVA. 



THE MAIDEN'S HOME. 



A COTTAGE in a peaceful vale ; 

A jasmine round the door ; 
A hill to shelter from the gale 

A silver brook before. 

517 



EVA. 

Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, 

In mornings soft with May; 
Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, 

Reflecting heaven, away! 
A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth 

Rejoicing Nature gave ; 
And heaven was mirror'd in her truth 

More clear than on the wave. 
Oft to that lone sequester' d place 

My boyish steps Avould roam, 
There was a look in Eva's face 

That seem'd a smile of home. 
And oft I paused to hear at noon 

A ^ oice that sang for glee : 
Or mark the white neck glancing dowii, 

The book upon the knee. 

THE IDIOT BOY. 

Wlio stands between thee and the sun? — 
A cloud himself, — the Wandering One ! 
A vacant wonder in the eyes, — 

The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll ; — 
The light was in the laughing skies. 

And darkness in the Idiot's soul. 
He touch'd the book upon her knee — 

He look'd into her gentle face — 
"Thou dost not ti'emble, maid, to sec 

Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. 
I know not why, but where I pass 

The aged turn away ; 
And if my shadow vex the grass. 

The children cease from play. 
My only playmates are the wind, 

The blossom on the bough ! 
"Why are thy looks so soft and kind? 

Thou dost not tremble — thou !" 
518 



BULWER LYTTON. 



Though none were by, she trembled not, — 
Too meek to wound, too good to fear him 

And, as he linger'd on the spot, 

She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him. 



THE YOUNG TEACHER. 

Of wonders on the Land and deeps 

She spoke, and glories in the sky — 
The eternal life the Father keeps 

For those, who- learn from Him to die. 
vSo simply did the maiden speak — 

So simply and so earnestly, 
You saw the light begin to break. 

And Soul the Heaven to see ; 
You saw how slowly, day by day, 
The darksome waters caught the ray, 
Confused and broken — come and gone — 

The beams as yet uncertain are, 
But still the billows murmur on, 

And struggle for the star. 

THE STRANGER-SUITOR. 

There came to Eva's maiden home 

A Stranger from a sunnier clime ; 
The lore that Hellas taught to Kome, 

The wealth that Wisdom wins from Time, 
Which ever, in its ebb and flow, 

Heaves to the seeker on the shore 
The waifs of glorious wrecks below, 

The argosies of yore ; — 
Each gem that in that dark profound 

The Past the Student's soul can find, 
Shone from his thought, and sparkled round 

The Enchanted Palace of the Mind. 
How trustful in the leafy June, 

She roved with him the lonely vale; 
519 




How trustful by the tender moon, 

She bhish'd to hear a tenderer tale. 
O happy Earth ! the dawn revives, 

Day after day, each drooping floAver — 
Time to the heart once only gives 

The joyous Morning-hour. 
"To him — oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth, 

For whom the world's false bloom is o'er? 
520 



BULWER LYTTON. 

My heart shall haven in thy truth, 

And tempt the faithless wave no more." 

Her hand lay trembling on his arm, 

Averted glow'd the happy face ; 
A softer hue, a mightier charm, 

Grew mellowing o'er the hour — the place ; 
Along the breathing woodlands moved 

A presence dream-like and divine — 
How sweet to love and be beloved. 

To lean upon a heart that's thine ! 
Silence was o'er the earth and sky — 

By silence Love is answer'd best — 
Her answer was the downcast eye. 

The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast. 

What rustles through the moonlit brake % 

Wl)at sudden specti'e meets their gaze ? 
What face, the hues of life forsake, 

Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays? 
You might have heard his heart that beat. 

So heaving rose its heavy swell — 
No more the Idiot — at her feet 

The Dark One, roused to reason, fell. 
Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought, 

The lightning broke upon the blind — 
The jealous love the cure had wrought, 

The Heart in wakuig woke the Mind. 

THE HERMIT. 

Years fly; beneath the yew-tree's shade. 

Thy father's holy dust is laid; 

The brook glides on, the iasmine blows ; 

But where art thou, the wandering wife? 
And what the bliss, and what the woes, 

Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life? 
521 



EVA. 

For whether life may laugh or weep. 
Death the true waking — life the sleep. 
Who tenants thy forsaken cot — 

Who tends thy childhood's favourite flowers- 
Who wakes, from every haunted spot, 

The Ghosts of buried Hours'? 
'Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrow 
From thee the Vision and the Sorrow — 
To whom the Reason's golden ray, 

In storms that rent the heart, was given ; 
The peal that burst the clouds away 

Left clear the face of heaven ! 
And wealth was his, and gentle birth, 

A form in fair proportions cast ; 
IJut lonely still he walk'd the earth — 

The Hermit of the Past. 
It was not love — that dream was o'er! 

No stormy grief, no wild emotion ; 
For oft, what once Avas love of yore, 

The memory soothes into devotion ! 
He bought the cot : — The garden flowers — - 

The haunts his Eva's steps had trod. 
Books — thought — beguiled the lonely hours. 

That flow'd in peaceful waves to God. 

DESERTION. 

She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

In that far land, by that bright sea ; 
She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

Whose smile an Angel's seem'd to be. 
She knows it all — the hideous tale — 

The wrong, the perjury, and the shame ; — 
Before the bride had left her veil. 

Another bore the nuptial name. 
The infant woke from feverish rest — 

Its smile she sees, its voice she hears — 
522 




The marble melted from the breast, 
And all the Mother gush'd in tears. 



THE RETURN. 

The cottage in the peaceful vale, 
Tlie jasmine round the door, 

The hill still shelters from the gale. 
The brook still glides before. 
523 



EVA. 

Without the porch, one summer noon, 

The Hermit-dweller see! 
In musing silence bending down. 

The book upon his knee. 
Who stands between thee and the sun? — 
A cloud herself, — the Wand'ring One ! — 
A vacant sadness in the eyes. 

The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; 
The light is in the laughing skies. 

And darkness, Eva, in thy soul! 
Yet still the native instinct stirr'd 

The darkness of the breast — 
She flies, as flies the wounded bird 

Unto the distant nest; 
O'er hill and waste, from land to land. 

Her heart the faithful instinct bore ; 
And there, behold the Wanderer stand 

Beside her Childhood's Home once more! 



LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 

Wlien earth is fair, and winds are still. 
When sunset gilds the western hill, 
Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, 
Or by the brook, with noiseless feet. 

Two silent forms are seen ; 
So silent they — the place so lone — 
They seem like souls, when life is gone, 

That haunt where life has been : 
And his to watch, as in the past 

Her soul had Avatch'd his soul. 
Alas! her darkness waits the last, 

The grave the only goal ! 
It is not what the leech can cure — 

An erring chord, a jarring madness : 
A calm so deep, it must endure — 

So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness ; 
524 



BULWER LYTTOX. 

A summer night, whose shadow falls 

On silent hearths in ruin'd halls. 

Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to foci 

His pi-esence like a happier air ; 
Close by his side she loved to steal. 

As if no ill could harm her there ! 
And when her looks his own would seek, 

Some memory seem'd to wake the sigh, 
Strive for kind words she could not speak. 

And bless him in the tearful eye. 

O sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, 

In mornings soft with May, 
And silver-clear the waves that flow 

To shoreless deeps away ;' 
But heavenward from the faithful heart 

A sweeter incense stole ; — 
The onward waves their source desert; 

But Soul returns to Soul ! 




PROCTER. 



THE HISTORY OF A LIFE. 



Day dawned : — Within a curtained room, 
Filled to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 



r.L'O 



PKOCTER. 

Day closed: — A Child had seen the light 
But for the lady, fair and bright, 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose : — The lady's grave was green 
And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled : — He wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died! Behold, before yc. 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

Life — Death, — and all that is of Glory. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 



WITHOUT. 

The winds are bitter ; the skies are wild ; 

From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain 
Without,— in tatters, the world's poor child 

Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain ! 
No one heareth her, no one heedeth her: 

But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand 
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily — 

"What dost Thou in a Christian land?" 
527 




The skies are wild, and tlae blast is cold ; 

Yet riot and luxury brawl within : 
Slaves are waiting, in silver and gold, 

Waiting the nod of a child of sin. 
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling 

Up in each glass to its beaded brim: 
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing 

"Happiness," — "honour," — and all for him! 
528 



PEOCTER. 



WITHOUT. 



She who is slain in the winter weather 
Ah! she once had a village fame; 

Listened to love on the moonlit heather; 
Had gentleness — vanity — maiden shame ; 

N'oiv, her allies are the tempest howling; 

• Prodigals' curses; self-disdain; 

Poverty; misery: Well, — no matter; 
There is an end unto every pain! 



WITHIN. 



He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth, 

He Avho doth rest on his couch of down, 

He it was, who threw the forsaken 

Under the feet of the trampling town : 

Liar — betrayer, — false as cruel, 
What is the doom for his dastard sin? 

His peers, they scorn ? — high dames, they shun him ? 
— Unbar yon palace, and gaze within. 

There, — yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded, 

There, upon silken seats recline 
Maidens as fair as the summer morning, 

Watching him rise from the sparkling wine. 
Mothers all proffer tlieir stainless daughters; 

Men of high honour salute him " P'riend ;" 
Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters? 

World! oh, Avhere do thy wonders end? 



529 




ATHERSTONE. 



BATTLE SCENES. 



O'er all the plain tli' Assyrian camp-fires now 
Blaze high; and with the darkness a drear red 
Strangely commingle. Like a burning gulf, 
Sleeping till stirr'd by winds ; the heaving mass 
Of warriors at the mountain's foot appears ; 
Breast-plates, and shields, and helms, and gonfalons, 
Glow blood-red here and there ; but doubly dark 
Elsewhere the night. Now, toward the hills all haste 
If Medes alone, or with Assyrians mixed, 
I cannot know ; but rapid is the speed. 
The light increases : up the mountain's side, 
530 



ATHERSTONE. 

In the red darkness faintly I discern 
The slumbering myriads; and toward its foot 
Onward they come ; like billows of dark fire. 
But farther off, in one bright blaze, the camp 
Shines out: a countless multitude I see. 
In flaming armour pouring o'er the plain. 
Like ocean glittering 'neath the ruddy sun, 
The Avide field flashes ; like the ocean's roar 
Their clamours rise. 

Among the trees a crash 
I hear, — a heaving of the branches. Lights 
Are thickening near the hill. Ha! now I see 
They rend the boughs for torches. In his hand 
Each soldier bears a branch of blazing pine. 
They speed toward the heights: they shake the torch 
They wave the sword: like running flame they seenu 
Now up the steep they urge. A cloud of darts 
And arrows from the Medes upon them pours,— 
A fiery cloud; and stones are hurled— and spears;— 
Yet upward still they come. The watch-fires now' 
Are flaming on the hills: distinctly gleams 
The battle forth. Their torches they cast down ; 
Not needed now. Ha! by his star-like helm, 
Assyria's king appears. He shouts: he flies: 
He points towards the rocks ;— he waves them on, 
A Avarrior meets him: sword with sword they fight- 
Arabia's monarch, sure.— But both are lost,— 
The waves of fight roll o'er them— 



Meantime, along the sapphire bridge of heaven, 
Far, far beyond the canopy of cloud 
That mantled earth, the day-god's lightning steeds 
Through the pure ether rapt his chariot-wheels, 
Sounding harmonious thunder. To the height 
They had ascended; and the steep decline 
Half-way had measured; yet the hard-fought field 
531 



BATTLE SCENES. 

Still was contested; for, like men resolved 

On that one day to peril all to come — 

To die, perchance, but never to submit — 

The Assyrian captains strove; and, with like fire, 

Their soldiers' hearts inflamed. Aid too had come — 

Chariots, and horse, and foot; who, when the scale, 

Charged with Assyria's doom, was sinking fast, 

Twice had its fall arrested. Once again, 

When seemed that utter ruin hovered nigh, 

The chariot of Assyria's beauteous queen 

From rank to rank flew on : and, as they saw. 

The warriors' breasts, as with new soul infused, 

Like beacons freshly kindled, burst at once 

Into intensest flame. Unhelmed, unarmed. 

Her ebon hair loose flying in the wind, 

She raised aloft her arms, her voice uplift, 

And bade them on to glory. As the star 

Of morning, while the sun yet sleeps below, 

And the grey mist is on the dewy earth, 

Her face was pale and radiant. Like a shape 

From heaven descended, and to mortal harm 

Impassive, gloriously and fearlessly 

Through the death-laden air she flew along. 

Her spirit fired the host ; Avith deafening shouts 

Onward they bore ; and, for a time, the Medes 

Compelled, though slowly, backward. 



532 



MARY HOWITT. 
THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

Part I. 

FrojM his bed rose Kichard Burnell 

At the early dawn of day, 
Ere tlie bells of London city 

Welcomed in the morn of May. 

Early on that bright May morning 
Eose the young man from his bed;, 

He, the happiest man in London, 
And thus to himself he said : — 

" ' When the men and maids are dancing, 
And the folk are mad with glee. 

In the Temple's shady gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee!' 

"Thus my Alice spake last even, 
Thus with trembling lips she spake. 

And those blissful words have kept me 
Through the live-long night awake. 

" 'Tis a joy beyond expression, 
When we first, in truth, perceive 

That the love we long have cherished 
Will not our fond hearts deceive! 
533 




" Never dared I to confess it — 
Deeds of homage spoke instead ; 

True love is its own revealer, 
She must know it ! oft I said. 

" All my words, and all my actions, 
But one meaning could impart ; 

Love can love's least sign interpret, 
And she reads my inmost heart. 



" And her good old merchant father, - 
Father he has been to me — 

Saw the love grow up between us, 
Saw — and was well pleased to see. 
534 



MARY HOWITT. 

"Seven years I truly served him, 

Now my time is at an end ; 
Master is he now no longer : 

Father will be — has been friend. 

"I was left betimes an orphan, 
Heir unto great merchant-wealth, 

But the iron rule of kinsfolk 

Dimmed my youth, and sapped my health. 

" Death had been my early portion 
Had not my good guardian come ; 

He, the father of my Alice, 
And conveyed me to his home. 

" Here began a new^ existence, — 
Then how new the love of friends! 

And for all the child's afflictions 
Each one strove to make amends. 

"Late my spring-time came, but quickly 

Youth's rejoicing currents run, 
And my inner life unfolded 

Like a flower before the sun. 



" Hopes, and aims, and aspirations 
Grew within the growing boy ; 

Life had new interpretation ; 

Manhood brought increase of joy. 

" In and over all was Alice, 
Life-infusing, like the spring ; 

My soul's soul ! even joy without her 
Was a poor and barren thing ! 
535 



THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

"And she spoke last eve at parting, 
'When the folk are mad with glee, 

Ih the Temple's pleasant gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee !' 



''As she spoke, her sweet voice trembled. 
Love such tender tones can teach ! 

And those words have kept me waking, 
And the manner of her speech ! 

"For such manner has deep meaning," 
Said young Burnell, blithe and gay; — 

And the bells of London city 
Pealed a welcome to the May. 



Part II. 



Whilst the folk were mad with pleasure, 
'Neath the elm-tree's vernal shade, 

In the Temple's quiet gardens 

Walked the young man and the maid. 

On his arm her hand was resting. 
And her eyes were on the ground ; 

She was speaking, he was silent ; 
Not a word his tongue had found. 

"Friend beloved," she thus addressed hiim, 
" I have faith and hope in thee ! 

Thou canst do what no one else can — 
Thou canst be a friend to me! 

536 



MARY HOWITT. 

"Eicharcl, Ave have lived togethei- 
All these years of happy youth ; 

Have, as sister and as brother, 
Lived in confidence and truth. 

"Thou from me hast hid no feelino'e, 
Thy whole heart to me is known ; 

I — I only have kept from thee 
One dear, little thought alone. 



"Have I wronged thee in so doing? 

Then forgive me! But give ear; 
Tis to bare my heart before thee 

That I now am with thee here. 

" Well thou know'st my father loves thee ; 

'Tis his wish that we should wed, 

I shame not to speak thus frankly 

Wish, or ivill more justly said. 

"But this cannot be, my brother, 

Cannot be — 'twere nature's wrono-' — 

I have said so to my father; 

But thou know'st his Avill is strong." 

Not a word spake Richard Burnell : 

Not a word came to his lips; 
Like one tranced he stood and listened; 

Life to him was in eclipse. 

In a lower tone she murmured, 
Murmured like a brooding dove, 

"Know thou,— Leonard Woodvil loves m&,- 
And — that he has won my love." 



THE BALLAD OF RICHAKD BURNELL. 

Came a pause. The words she uttered 

Seemed to turn him mto stone; 

Pale he stood and mute beside her, 
And with blushes she went on. 

"This is known unto my father; — 
Leonard is well known- to thee, 

Thou hast praised him, praised him often- 
Oh, how dear such praise to me ! 

"But my father, stern and steadfast, 
Will not list to Leonard's prayer; — 

And 'tis only thou canst move him, — 
Only thou so much canst dare. 

" Tell my father firmly, freely, 
That we only love each other — 

'Tis the truth, thou know'st it, Kichard,— 
As a sister and a brother ! 



"Tell my father, if we wedded, 
Thou and I, it would be guilt! 

Thus it is that thou canst aid us — 
And thou wilt — I know thou wilt ! 



"Yes, 'tis thus that thou must aid us, 
And thou wilt ! I say no more ! — 

We've been friends, but this will make us 
Better friends than heretofore !" 



Yet some moments he was silent; 

His good heart was well-nigh broke; 
She was blinded to his anguish ; — 

And " I will !" at length he spoke. 

538 



MARY HOWITT. 



Part III. 



They were wedded. 'Twas a wedding 
That had far and high renown, 

And from morning until even 
Rang the bells of London town. 

Time went on: the good old merchant 

Wore a cloud upon his brow: 
" Wherefore thus f his fiiiends addressed him, 

"No man should be blithe as thou!" 

"In my old age I am lonely," 

Said the merchant, "she is gone; — 

And young Burnell, he I nurtured, 
He Avho was to me a son ; 

" He has left me ! — I'm deserted — 
E'en an old man feels such woe ! 

'Twas but natural she should marry, 
But he should not have served me so. 

" 'Twas not that which I expected ! 

He was very dear to me, — 
And I thought no London merchant 

Would have stood as high as he ! 



" He grew very strange and moody. 
What the cause I cannot say ; — 

And he left me when my daughter, 
My poor Alice, went away! 
539 




" I had been a father to him, 

He to me was like a son : 
Young folks should have more reflection, 

'Twas what / could not have done ! 



" True, he writes me duteous letters ; 

Calls me father, tells me all 
That in foreign parts is doing, — 

But young people write so small, 
540 



MARY HOWITT. 

"That I'm often forced to leave them, 
Pleasant letters though they be, 

Until Alice comes from Richmond, 
Then she reads them out to me. 

" Alice fain would have me with her ; 

Leonard well deserves my praise 

But he's not my Eichard Burnell, 

Knows not my old wants and ways ! 

"No, my friends, I'll not deny it. 

It has cut me to the heart, 
Tliat the son of my adoption 

Thus has played a cruel part!" 

So the merchant mourned and murmured ; 

And all foreign charms unheeding. 
Dwelt the lonely Eichard Burnell, 

With his bruised heart still bleeding. 



Part IV. 



Time went on, and in the spring-tide, 
When the. birds began to build. 

And the heart of all creation 
With a vast delight was filled, 

Came a letter unto Alice — 

Then a babe lay on her breast — 

'Twas the first which Richard Burnell 
Unto Alice had addressed. 
541 



THE BALLAD OF KICIIARD BURNELL. 

Few the words which it contained, 
But each word was like a sigh ; 

"I am sick and very lonely; — 
Let me see thee ere I die! 



"In this time of tribulation 
Thou wilt be a friend to me : 

Therefore in the Temple Gardens 
Let me once more speak with thee." 

Once more in the Temple Gardens 
Sat they 'neath the bright blue sky, 

With the leafage thick around them, 
And the river rolling by. 

Pale and weak was Richard Burnell, 
Gone all merely outward grace. 

Yet the stamp of meek endurance 
Gave sad beauty to his face. 

Silent by his side sat Alice, 

Now no word her tongue could speak, 
All her soul was steeped in pity. 

And large tears were on her cheek. 

Burnell spake: "Within these Gardens 
Thy commands on me were -laid, 

And, although my heart was breaking, 
Yet were those commands obeyed. 

"What I suffered no one knoweth, 
Nor shall know, I proudly said, 

And, when grew the grief too mighty. 
Then — there was no help — I fled. 

542 



MARY HOWITT. 

"Yes, I loved thee, long had loved thee, 

And alone the God above, 
He, who at that time sustained me. 

Knows the measure of my love ! 

" Do not let these words displease thee ; 

Life's sore battle soon will cease ; 
I have fallen amid the conflict. 

But within my soul is peace. 

" It has been a fiery trial. 
But the fiercest pang is past ; 

Once more I am come amongst you — 
Oh ! stand by me at the last ! 

" Leonard will at times come to me. 

And thy father. I will try 
To be cheerful in his presence. 

As I was in days gone by. 

"Bitter has it been to leave him; 

But in all my heart's distress. 
The great anguish which consumed me 

Seemed to swallow up the less. 

"Let me go! my soul is wearied, 
No fond heart of me has need, 

Life has no more duties for me ; — 
I am but a broken reed ! 

" Let me go, ere courage faileth, 
Gazing, gazing thus on thee ! — 

But in life's last awful moment, 
Alice ! thou wilt stand by me !" 
543 



THE BALLAD OF EICHARD BURNELL, 

From her seat rose Alice Woodvil, 

• And ill steadfast tones began, 
Like a strong consoling angel, 
To address the dying man. 

"Not in death alone, my brother, 
Wonld I aid thee in the strife; 

I Avould fain be thy sustainer • 
In the fiercer fight of life. 



"With the help of God, thy spirit 
Shall not in this conflict yield; 

Prayer, the key which opens heaven, 
Is the Christian's sword and shield. 

"God will aid thee! We will hold thee 
By our love! — thou shalt not go! — 

And from out thy wounded spirit. 
We will pluck the thorns of woe. 

" Say not life has no more duties 

Which can claim thee! Where are then 

All the sinners ; the neglected ; • 
All the weeping sons of men? 

"Ah, my friend, hast thou forgotten 
All our dreams of early days? 

How we would instruct poor children, 
How we would the fallen raise ! 

" God has not to me permitted 
Such great work of human love ; 

He has marked me out a lower 
Path of duty where to move. 
544 



MARY HOWITT. 

"But to thee, His chosen servant, 

Is this higher lot allowed ; 
He has brought thee through deep waters. 

Through the furnace, through the cloud ; 

" He has made of thee a mourner, 
Like the Christ, that thou may'st rise 

To a purer height of glory, 

Through the pangs of sacrifice! 

" 'Tis alone of His appointing, 

That thy feet on thorns have trod ; 

Suffering, woe, renunciation, 
Only bring us nearer God. 

"And when nearest Him, then largest 
The enfranchised heart's embrace : — 

It was Christ, the Man re^jected, 
Wlio redeemed the human race. 

" Say not, then, thou hast no duties ; — 
Friendless outcasts on thee call, 

And the sick and the afflicted, 
And the children, more than all. 

" Oh, my friend, rise up, and follow 
Where the hand of God shall lead ; 

He has brought thee through affliction. 
But to fit thee for His need !" 

Thus she spoke ; and as from midnight 

Springs the opal-tinted morn, 
So, within his dreary spirit, 

A new day of life was born. 
545 







Strength sublime may rise from weakness, 
Groans be turned to songs of praise, 

Nor are life's divinest labours 
Only told by length of days. 



Young he died : but deeds of mercy 
Beautified his life's short span. 

And he left his worldly substance 
To complete what he began. 
546 



ARNOLD. 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. 

Who taught this pleading to unpractis'd eyes? 

Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? 
Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise? 

What clouds thy forehead, and fore-dates thy doom ? 

Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; 

The swinging waters, and the cluster' d pier. 
Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, 

Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. 

But thou whom superfluity of joy 

Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, 
Nor weariness, the full fed soul's annoy; 

Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain : 

Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse 

From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; 

With eyes that sought thine eyes thou didst converse, 
And that soul-searching vision fell on me. 

Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known : 
^Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth 

Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine ow^n : 
Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 

What mood wears like complexion to tliy woe? — 
His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, 

Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below? — 
Ah ! thine Avas not the shelter, but the fray. 
547 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

What exile's, ehaiigiiig bitter thoughts with glad? 

What seni])h's, in some alien planet born? — 
No exile's dream was ever half so sad, 

Nor any angel's sorrow so ibrlorn. 

Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who Aveigh 
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore: 

But in disdainful silence turn away, 

Stand route, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? 

Or do I wait, to hear some gray-liair'd king 

Unravel all liis many-eolour'd lore: 
Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, 

Mus'd much, lov'd life a little, loath'd it more? 

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope. 

Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give — 

Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope. 
Foreseen thy harvest — ^yet proceed'st to live. 

meek anticipant of that sure pain 

Whose sureness gray-hair"d scholars hardly learn ! 
What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain ? 

What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern ? 

Ere the long night whose stillness brooks no star. 
Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 

1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, 
Have known too much — or else forgotten all. 

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps : 

Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale 
Of grief, and eas'd us with a thousand sleeps. 

Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use. 

Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring, 
Oblivion in lost angels can infuse 

Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing; 
548 



AENOLD. 

And though tliou glean, what strenuous gleaners may, 
In the throng'd fields where whining comes by strife; 

And though the just sun gild, as all men pray, 
Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 

Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the cloud 
That sever' d the world's march and thine is gone: 

Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud 
To halve a lodging that was all her own : 

Once ere the day decline, thou shalt discern, 
Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain: 

Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return. 
And wear this majesty of grief again. 



5 {9 



BENNETT. 
BABY'S SHOES. 

On, those little, those little blue shoes! 

Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy. 

Those little blue unused shoes! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so SAveet. 

And oh, since that baby slept. 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear ti'easure, 
And over them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there. 
There babbles from chair to chair • 
A little SAveet face 
That's a gleam in the place. 
With its little gold curls of hair. 
r)50 



BENNETT. 

Then, oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 



LILIAN'S EPITAPH. 

Thou hast been and thou hast fled, 

Rose, sweet rose ; 
Budded, flashed, and, ah ! art dead, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Yet oblivion may not kill 
Dreams of thee, our thoughts that fill, 
And for us thou'rt blooming still, 

Kose, sweet rose. 

Breathing rose, nor might'st thou stay, 

Rose, sweet rose ; 
Thou too, woe! hast passed away. 

Rose, sweet rose ; 
Yet tliough death had heart to sever 
Life and thee, thou'rt from us never; 
No, in thought thou'rt with us ever, 

Rose, sweet rose. 



r>5i 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 



SCENE — THE BANKS OF A RIVER. 



'Tis that loveliest stream. 



I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course 

liy frequent tracing, as a lover learns 

Tiie features of his best beloved's face. 

In memory it runs, a shining thread. 

With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls. 

From yonder trees I've seen the western sky 

All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun 

Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat 

A spreading wave of light. Where yonder church 

Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede 

For sinful hamlets scatter'd at its feet, 

I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down. 

And all the west was paved with sullen fire. 

I cried, " Behold ! the barren beach of hell 

At ebb tide." The ghost of one bright hour 

Comes from its grave and stands before me now. 

'Twas at the close of a long summer day, 

As .we were sitting on yon grassy slope. 

The sunset hung before us like a dream 

That shakes a demon in his fiery lair; 

The clouds were standing round the setting sun 

Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles, 

Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light, 

Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame, 

Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and peaks 

Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire 

A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas — 

All these were huddled in that dreadful west. 

All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light. 




And from the centre blazed the angry sun, 
Stern as the unlash'd eye of God a-glare 
O'er evening city with its boom of sin. 
I do remember, as we journeyed homo, 
(That dreadful sunset burnt into our brains,) 
With what a soothing came the naked moon. 
She, like a swimmer who has found his ground. 
Came rippling up a silver strand of cloud, 
553 



PICTURES. 

Ami plunged from the other gidc into the night. 

I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, 

Did wander up and down these banks for years, 

Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths. 

Plow sin and weeping all should pass away 

In the calm sunshine of the earth's old age. 

Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse ; 

'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung 

O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. 

Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt 

Breezes of love, and joy, and melody, 

Blow through us, as the winds blow througli the sky. 

Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed 

On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams. 

O'er which the air hung silent in its joy ; 

With a great city lying in its smoke, 

A monster sleeping in its own thick breath ; 

And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods 

In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks, 

Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs, 

And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played. 

To us imheard ; till, gradual, all was lost 

In distance-haze to a blue rim of hills, 

Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. 



PICTURES. 

The lark is singing in the blinding sky, 
Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea 
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, 
lie decorates her tawny brow with shells, 

654: 





Retires a space, to see how fail* she looks. 
Then, proud, runs up to kiss hei*. All is fair — 
All glad, from grass to sun 
555 



PICTURES. 



— One nymph slumbering lay, 
A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbs 
Sinking full softly in the violets dim; 
When timbrelled troops rushed past with bi'anches green. 
One in each fountain, riched with golden sands. 
With her delicious face a moment seen, 
And limbs faint gleaming through their watery veil. 



— A grim old king, 
AYhose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed 
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds, 
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day; 
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, 
Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held 
His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood, 
That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head ; 
His right, his broken brand ; and in his ear 
His old victorious banners flap the winds. 
He called his faithful herald to his side — 
"Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile, 
Tlie warrior with a stab let out his soul, 
AVliich fled, and shrieked through all the other world, 
"Ye dead! My master comes!" And there was pause 
Till the great Shade should enter. 



556 




BAILEY. 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 



The last high upward slant of sun on the trees, 
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall, 
Seems to console earth for the glorj gone. 
Oh ! I could weep to see the day die thus ; 
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful ! 
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there ; 
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings ! 
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end. 
557 



WORDS. 

It will wake no more till the all-revealing day; 

When, like a drop of water, greatened bright 

Into a shadow, it shall show itself 

With all its little tyrannous things and deeds, 

Un homed and clear. The day hath gone to God,- 

Straio^ht — like an infant's spirit, or a mocked 

And mourning messenger of Grace to man. 

Would it had taken me too on its wing! 

My end is nigh. Would I might die outright, — 

So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality 

The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse 

Their glory, heightening to the starry blue 

Of all embosoming eternity. 

Who that hath lain lonely on a high hill, 

In the imperious silence of full noon. 

With nothing but the clear dark sky about him. 

Like Gou's Hand laid upon the head of earth, — 

But hath expected that some natural spirit 

Should start out of the universal air, 

And, gathering his cloudy robe around him, 

As one in act to teach mysterious things, 

Explain that he must die? 



WORDS. 



The poet in his work reflects his soul, 
As some lone nymph, beside a woodland well. 
Whose clear white limbs, like animated light. 
Make glad the heart and sanctify the sight, 
The soft and shadowy miracle of her form. 
The bard's aim is to give us thoughts ; his art 
Lieth in giving them as bright as may be. 

r58 



. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 

Words •are the motes of thought, and nothing more. 
Words are like sea-shells on the shore ; they show 
Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. 
Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, 
And roughly looked over. The dress of words, 
Like to the Roman girl's enticing garb. 
Should let the play of limb be seen through it, 
And the round rising form. A mist of Avords, 
Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge 
The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
Doubly. It is the thought writ down we Avant, 
Not its effect, — not likenesses of likenesses. 
And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 
Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. 
As in the good the fair; simplicity 
Is Nature's first step, and the last of Art. 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 

Her form was all humanit}', 

Her soul all God's ; in spirit and in form, 
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 
Of sea-shells, the Avorld's sweetest tint, as thougli 
She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped 
In silver dew ; she spake as Avith the voice 
Of spheral harmony, Avhich greets the sovd 
When at the hour of death the saved one knows 
His sister angels near ; her eye Avas as 
The golden fane the setting sun doth just 
Imblaze ; which shows, till Heaven comes doAvn again, 
All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark. 
Long rolling locks Avere as a stream the slave 
Might search for gold, and, searching, find. 
5.->9 



'®^JT^^ 




KNOWLES. 
THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. 

JULIA AND MASTER WALTER. 

Walter. AVhat. ! run the waves so high ? Not ready yet ! 
Your lord will soon be here ! The guests collect. 



Julia. Show me some way to 'scape these nuptials ! Do it ! 
Some opening for avoidance or escape, — 
Or to thy charge Til lay a broken heart! 

560 



KNOWLES. 

It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour ! 
Or else a mind distraught ! 

Walter. What's this ? 

Julia. The strait 

I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear! 
It frights my reason — warps my sense of virtue ! 
Religion! — changes me into a thing 
I look at with abhorring ! 

Walter. Listen to me. 

Julia. Listen to me, and heed me ! If this contract 
Thou hold'st me to — abide thou the result ! 
Answer to Heaven for what I suiFer ! — act ! 
Prepare thyself for such calamity 
To fall on me, and those whose evil stars 
Have link'd them Avith me, as no past mishap, 
However rare, and marvellously sad, 
Can parallel ! lay thy account to live 
A smileless life, die an unpitied death — 
Abhorr'd, abandon' d of thy kind, — as one 
Who had the guarding of a young maid's peace, — 
Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it ; 
And when she saw her danger, and confess'd 
Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin ! 

Walter. Hast done? 

Julia. Another moment, and I have. 

Be warn'd! Beware how you abandon me 
To myself! I'm young, rash, inexperienced! tempted 
By most insufferable misery ! 
Bold, desperate, and reckless ! Thou hast age. 
Experience, wisdom, and collectedness, — 

561 N 



THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. 

Power, freedom,— cvcrylliing that I have not. 

Yet want, as none e'er wanted ! Thou canst save me, 

Thou ought'st! thou must! I tell thee, at his tbet 

I'll fall a corse — ere mount his bridal bed! 

So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave; — 

And quickly too! The hour of sacrifice 

Is near! Anon the immolating priest' 

"Will summon me! Devise some speedy means 

To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it ! 

Nor leave the task to me ! 

Walter. Hast done"? 

Julia. I have. 

Walter. Then list to me — and silently, if not 
With patience. — [Brings chairs for himself and her. 

How I watch'd thee from thy childhood, 
I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom — 
Whose humble instrument I was — directed 
Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy, 
From your apt mind, that far outstripp'd your years, 
Fearing the taint of an infected Avorld ; — 
For in the rich ground, weeds, once taking root, 
Grow strong as flowers. He might be right or wrong! 
I thought him right; and therefore did his bidding. 
Most certainly he loved you — so did I ; 
Ay ! Avell as I had been myself your father ! 

\_Ilis hand is resting iqion his knee. Julia attempts to take it. 
He ivitMraws it; looks at her. She hangs her head- 

Well ; you may take my hand ! I need not say 
How fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness, — 
That hope could scarce enjoy its golden dreams, 
So soon fullilment realized them all! 

502 



KNOWLES. 

Enough. You came to womanhood. Your heart 

Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, 

That's new unfokled by the smilmg sun, 

And ne'er knew blight nor canker ! When a good woman 

Is fitly mated, she grows doubly good, 

How good soe'er before ! I found the man 

I thought a match for thee ; and, soon as found, 

Proposed him to thee. 'Twas your father's will, 

Occasion offering, you should be married 

Soon as you reach'd to womanhood. You liked 

My choice — accepted him. We came to town ; 

Where, by important matters, summon'd thence, 

I left you, an affianced bride ! 

Julia. You did ! 

You did! 

Walter. Nay, check thy tears ! Let judgment now. 
Not passion, be awake. On my return, 
I found thee — what ? I'll not describe the thing 
I found thee then ! I'll not describe my pangs 
To see thee such a thing ! The engineer 
Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower 
It cost him years and years of toil to raise. 
And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves 
To roar and whistle now — but, in a night. 
Beholds the tempest sporting in its place — 
May look aghast, as I did ! 



563 



MASSEY. 



OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. 



All in our marriage garden 

Grew, smiling up to God, 
A bonnier flower than ever 

Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; 
O beautiful unfathomably 

Its little life unfurled ; 
And croAvn of all things was our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

From out a balmy bosom, 

Our bud of beauty grew : 
It fed on smiles for sunshine ; 

On tears for daintier dew : 
Aye nestling warm and tenderly, 

Our leaves of love were curled. 
So close and close, about our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

With mystical faint fragrance 
Our house of life she filled — 

Revealed each hour some fairy tower 
Where winged hopes might build ! 

We saw — though none like us might see- 
Such precious promise pearled 

Upon the petals of our wee 
White Rose of all the world. 
5G4 




But, evermore the halo 

Of Angel-light increased, 
Like the mystery of moonlight 

That folds some fairy feast. 
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently 

Our darling bud up-curled, 
And dropt i' the grave— God's lap— our wee 

White Kose of all the world. 
5G5 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

Our Kose was but in blossom ; 

Our life was but in spring ; 
When clown the solemn midnight 

We heard the Spirits sing — 
'' Another bud of infancy 

With holy dews impcarled !" 
And in their hands they bore our Avee 

White Rose of all the world. 

You scarce could think so small a thing 

Could leave a loss so large ; 
Her little light such shadow fling 

From dawn to sunset's marge. 
In other springs our life may be 

In bannered bloom unfurled, 
But never, never match our Avee 

White Rose of all the Avorld. 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

An ! 'tis like a tale of olden 

Time, long, long ago ; 
When the world Avas in its golden 

Prime, and Love AA'as lord beloAv ! 
Every A-ein of Earth was dancing 

With the Spring's ncAV Avine ! 
'Twas the pleasant time of flowers, 

When I met you, Ioa'C of mine ! 
Ah ! some spirit sure was straying 

Out of lieaA'en that day. 
When I met you, SAveet ! a-Maying 

In that merry, meriy JMay ! 
566 







Little heart ! it shyly opeii'd 
Its red leaves' love-lore, 

Like a rose that must be ripen'd 
To the dainty, dainty core. 

]>ut its beauties daily brighten, 
And it blooms so dear, — 
567 



BABE CHRISTABEL. 

Tho' a many AVinters whiten, 
I go Maying all the year. 

And my proud heart will be praying 
Blessings on the day, 

When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, 
In that merry, merry May. 



BABE CHRISTABEL. 

In this dim world of clouding cares, 
We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies. 

The Angels with us unawares. 

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death ! 

Shall light thy dark up like a Star, 

A Beacon kindling from afar 
Our light of love, and fainting faith. 

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually, 

And glitters thro' the thickest glooms. 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the Jasper Sea. 

With our best branch in tenderest leaf. 

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; 
And, ready for the harvest-home. 

His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 

Our l)eautiful Bird of light hath fled : 
Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
Sang round us a few hoverings — 

Then straightway into glory sped. 

568 



MASSEY. 

And white-winged Angels nurture her; 

With heaven's white radiance robed and crown' d, 

And all Love's purple glory round, 
She summers on the Hills of Myrrh. 

Thro' Childhood's morning-land serene 
She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love; 
While, in a robe of light above, 

Her better Angel walkt unseen, 

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild; 
Then, lest her starry garments trail 
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 

The Angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward roll'd 

To the great ocean, on whose shore 

We wander up and down, to store 
Some treasures of the times of old : 

And aye we seek and hunger on 

For precious pearls and relics rare, 

StreAvn on the sands for us to wear 
At heart, for love of her that's gone. 

O weep no more! there yet is balm 
Li Gilead! Love doth ever shed 
• Rich healing where it nestles, — spread 
O'er desert pillows some green palm! 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed; 

The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 

And in the wounds our sufferings plough, 
Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. 



569 




ALLINGHAM. 



AUTUMNAL SONNET. 



Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, 
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 

And night by night the monitory blast 

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes. 

Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise 

The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes. 
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distant lies 
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. 
570 



MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW. 

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back! 
My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright, 
My limbs are full of health and strength, 
My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light. 
So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! 
Consort with age, but not with me; 
Why shouldst thou follow on my track? 
I am too young to live Avith thee." 

"O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend! 
To harm thee wherefore should I seek? 
I would not dim thy sparkling eyes, 
Nor blight the roses on thy cheek. 
I would but teach thee to be true ; 
And should I press thee overmuch, 
Ever the flowers that I bedew 
Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch." 

" Get thee back. Sorrow, get thee back ! 
I like thee not ; thy looks are chill. 
The sunshine lies upon my heart. 
Thou showest me the shadow still. 
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back! 
Nor touch my golden locks with grey ; 
Why shouldst thou follow on my track? 
Let me be happy while I may." 

" Good friend, thou needest sage advice ; 
I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, 
I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts. 
And link thy pity to the crowd. 
571 



YOUTH AND SORROW. 

Wouldst have a heart of pulseless stone? 
Woulclst be too happy to be good? 
Nor make a human woe thine own, 
For sake of human brotherhood?" 

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back! 
Why should I weep while I am young? — 
I have not piped — I have not danced — 
My morning songs I have not sung: 
The world is beautiful to me, 
Why tarnish it to soul and sense? 
Prithee begone ! I'll think of thee 
Some half a hundred winters hence." 

" foolish Youth, thou know'st me not ;. 
I am the mistress of the earth — 
'Tis / give tenderness to love ; 
Enhance the privilege of mirth ; 
Refine the human gold from dross ; 
And teach thee, wormling of the sod, 
To look beyond thy present loss 
To thy eternal gain with God." 

" Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! 
I'll learn thy lessons soon enough ; 
If virtuous pleasure smooth my way, 
Why shouldst thou seek to make it rough' 
No fruit can ripen in the dark. 
No bud can bloom in constant cold — 
So, prithee, Sorrow, miss thy mark. 
Or strike me not till I am old." 

" I am thy friend, thy best of friends ; 
No bud in constant heats can blow — 
The green fruit withers in the drought, 
But ripens where the waters flow. 

572 




The sorrows of tliy youthful clay 
Shall make thee wise in coming years ; 
The brightest rainbows ever play 
Above the fountains of our tears." 



Youth frowned, but Sorrow gently smiled ; 
Upon his heart her hand she laid, 
And all its hidden sympathies 
Throbbed to the fingers of the Maid. 
And when his head grew grey with Time, 
He owned that Sorrow spoke the truth. 
And that the harvest of his prime 
Was ripened by the rains of Youth. 
573 



FRANCES BROWN. 



THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION. 



SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF AN AFRICAN CHIEF TO A MISSIONARY. 

Thy voice hath filled our forest shades, 

Child of the sunless shore ! 
For never heard the ancient glades 

Such wondrous words before. 
Though bards our land of palms have filled 

AVith tales of joy or dread, — 
Yet thou alone our souls hast thrilled 

With tidings of her dead. 

The men of old, Avho slept in death 

Before the forests gi'ew, 
Whose glory faded here beneath, 

While yet the hills were new, — 
The warriors famed in battles o'er, 

Of whom our fathers spake, — 
The wise, whose wisdom shines no more, — 

Stranger, will they awake"? 

The foes who fell in thousand fights. 

Beneath my conquering brand, — 
Whose bones have strewn the Gaffer's heights, 

The Bushman's lonely land, — 

574 




The young, who shared my ^\•tu•riol•-Avay, 
But found an early urn, — 

And the roses of my youth's bright day- 
Stranger, will they return ? 



My mother's face was fair to see — 

My father's glance was bright, — 
But long ago the grave from me 

Hath hid their blessed light ; 
Still sweeter was the sunshine shed 

By my lost children's eyes. 
That beam upon me from the dead,- 

Stranger, Avill they arise? 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Was it some green grave's early guest, 

Who loved thee long and well, 
That left the land of dreamless rest, 

Such blessed truths to tell? 
For we have had our wise ones, too. 

Who feared not death's abyss, — 
The strong in hope, in love the true, — 

But none that dreamed of this! 

Yet, if the grave restore to life 

Her ransomed spoils again. 
And ever hide the hate and strife 

That died Avith wayward men ; — 
IIow hath my spirit missed the star 

That guides our steps above ; — 
Since only earth was given to war, — 

That better land to love! 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

And lie that sat upon the Throne said, Behold, I make all things new, 

New Heavens ! for the stars grow pale 

With the midnight scenes of time ! 
And the sun is weary of the wail 

TTiat meets him in every clime : — 
And the sky grows dim with the mist of tears — 
Bring back the blue of its first, bright years ! 
57G 



FRANCES BROWN. 

New Earth! for the land and waves 

With a weight of evil groan ; 
And its dwellings stand in a soil of graves 

Which fearful things have known : 
From the touch of fire, from the battle-stain, 
Gives us its Eden green again! 

New Law ! for 'tis the arm of wrong. 

And great hath been the cry 
When oppressors' hands in their might grew strong, 

And their deeds have pierced the sky: — 
But the powers are shaken; — oh! requite 
With the free, unchanging law of right. 

New Faith ! for a voice of blood 

Ilath been heard from every shrine, 
And the world hath worshipped many a God 

With rites it deemed divine: — 

But the creeds grow old, and the fanes decay: 

Show us, at last, some better way! 

New Plope ! for it rose among 

The thorns of a barren spot. 
Where the bloom is brief and the labour long, 

And the harvest cometh not: — 
And hearts grow weary that watch and wait — 
Give them a rainbow that fears not fate! 

New Love! for it hath been cast 

On the troubled waters, long, 
And lioped in visions vain that passed 

Away, like a night-bird's song: — 
It may not be severed from the lost, — 
But give us the young world's love uncross'd ! 

New Life! give the summers back 
Whose glory passed in vain, — 

577 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Redeem our clays from the shadow black 

Of clouds without the rain, 
And the wastes which bitter waters wore — 
And our canker-eaten years restore! 

New Light! for the lamps decay 

Which shone on the old world's youth. 

And the wise man watches for a ray 
Of the undiscovered Truth : — 

Lonw hath he looked through the midnight dim,- 

Let the glorious Day-Spring visit him ! 

Must the Earth's last hope like a shadow flee? 

Was the dream of ages vain? 
Oh! when will the bright restoring be, 

And the glory come again 
Of our promised spring, with its blessed dew — 
And His Word, that maketh all things new! 



r)78 



PAESONS. 

SORRENTO. 

Midway betwixt the present and the past — 
Naples and Ptestum — look ! Sorrento lies : 

TJlysses buUt it, and the Sirens cast 

Their spell upon the shore, the sea, the skies 

If thou hast dreamed, in any dream of thine, 
How Paradise appears, or those Elysian 

Immortal meadows which the gods assign 
Unto the pure of heart — behold thy vision ! 

These waters, they are blue beyond belief. 

Nor hath green England greener fields than these : 

The sun — 'tis Italy's ; here winter's brief 
And gentle visit hardly chills the breeze. 

Here Tasso dwelt, and here inhaled with spring 
The breath of passion and the soul of song. 

Here young Boccacio plumed his early wing, 
Thenceforth to soar above the vulgar throng. 

All charms of contrast — every nameless grace 
That lives in outline, harmony, or hue — 

So heighten all the romance of the place, 
That the rapt artist maddens at the view. 

And then despairs, and throws his pencil by. 
And sits all day and looks upon the shore 

And the calm ocean with a languid eye. 
As though to labour were a law no more. 
579 



SOERENTO. 

A'oluptiious coast! no wonder that the proud 

Imperial Konian found in yonder isle 
Some sunshine still to gild Fate's gathering cloud, 

And lull the storm of conscience for a while. 

What new Tiberius, tired of lust and life. 

May rest him here to give the world a truce, — 

A little truce from perjury and strife, 
Justice adulterate and power's misuse? 

Might the gross Bourbon— ^he that sleeps in spite 

Of red Vesuvius ever in his eye, 
Yet, if he wake, should tremble at its light 

As 'twere Heaven's vengeance, promised from on high,- 

Or that poor gamester, of so cunning play. 
Who, up at last, in Fortune's fickle dance, 

Aping the mighty in so mean a Avay, 

Makes now his dice the destinies of France, — 

Might they, or any of Oppression's band, 
Sit here and learn the lesson of the scene. 

Peace might return to many a bleeding land. 
And men grow just again, and life serene. 



680 



PARSONS. 



SAINT PERAY. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood. 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic faint and sick, 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick: 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; — 
Was't not he who did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries? 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But, how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and various, 
Reaching Naples — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius. 

But I was a fool to try him ; 

Naught I said could liquefy him ; 

And I swear he did me wrong, 

Keeping me shut up so long 
581 



SAINT PERAY. 

In that pest-house, with obscene 

Jews and Greeks and things unclean — 

What need had I of quarantine"? 

In Sicily at least a score, — 
In Spain about as many more, — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply; 
Devil take the tribe! — said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame, 
To Assisi's walls I came : 
Sad and full of homesick fancies, 
I addressed me to Saint Francis ; 
But the beggar never did 
Anything as he was bid, 
Never gave me aught but fleas, — 
Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
Gifted with a wondrous juice 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first — 
In the witching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips. 
All saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 
AVith such magic into mine, 
582 



PARSONS. 

That methought such bliss as I did 
Poet never drew from wine. 

Rest he gave me and refection, 

Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, 

Softened images of sorrow. 

Bright forebodings for the morroM^, 

Charity for what is past, — 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 

The name of this good creature lack? 

Wherefore should the breviary 

Omit a saint so sage and merry? 

The Pope himself should grant a day 

Especially to Saint Peray. 

But, since no day hath been appointed, 

On purpose, by the Lord's anointed, 

Let us not Avait— Ave'll do him right; 

Send round your bottles, PLal— and set your night. 



583 




J. RUSSELL LOWELL. 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 



A BALLAD. 



" What fairings will ye that I bring ?" 
Said the king to his daughters three ; 

"For I to Vanity Fair am bound, 
Now say what shall they be V 



Then up and spake the eldest daughter, 

The lady tall and grand, 
"Ye shall bring to me the diamonds great, 

And gold rings for my hand." 

584 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

Thereafter spake the second daughter, 

That was both white and red, 
"For me bruig silk that will stand alone 

And a gold comb for my head." 

Then lowly spake the least daughter, 
That was whiter than thistle-down, 

And among the gold of her blithesome hair 
Dim shone the golden crown. 

" There came a bird at sunrise 
And sang 'neath my bower-eaves, 

And sent the sweet dream that bade me 
To ask for the Singing Leaves." 

The vein of his forehead reddened 

In a ridge of angry scorn, 
"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, 

And chosen as ye were born. 

"But thou, like a thing of peasant blood. 
That is happy binding the sheaves !" — 

Then he saw her dead mother in her face, 
And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves." 



II. 



He bade farewell to the elder twain. 
And touched his lips to their cheek. 

But 'tAvas thrice he kiss'd the Princess Anne, 
And looked back and did not speak. 

And he has ridden three days and nights, 

Till he came to Vanity Fair ; 
And easy it was to buy gems and gold. 

But no Singing Leaves were there. 
585 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, 

And asked of every tree : 
'•Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf, 

1 pray you to give it me !" 

But the trees all kept their counsel ; 

They said neither yea or nay ; 
Only there sighed from the pine-tops 

A music of seas far away. 

Only the aspen pattered 

With a sound like growing rain, 

That fell ever fast and faster. 
Then faltered to silence again. 

"Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page. 
That would win both hose and shoon, 

And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, 
If they grow 'neath sun or moon f 

Then lightly turned him Walter, the page, 

By the stirrup as he ran, 
" Now pledge to me the truesome word 

Of a knight and gentleman, 

" That you will give me the first, first thing 

You meet at your castle-gate ; 
And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves 

Or mine be the traitor's fate !" 

The king's liead dropped on his bosom 

A moment, as it might be — 
'Twill be my hound, he thought, and he said, 

"I pledge my word to thee." 

Then Walter took from next his heart 

A packet small and thin ; 
"And give you this to the Princess Anne — 

The Singing Leaves are therein." 

586 



J. RUSSELL LOWELL. 



As the king rode in, o'er the loud draw-bridge 

A maiden to meet him ran ; 
And, " Welcome, father !" she laughed and cried 

Together, the Princess Anne. 

" Lo, here thy Singing Leaves," quoth he ; 

" And wo, but they cost me dear !" 
She took the packet, and her smile 

Deepened down beneath the tear. 

It deepened down to her very heart, 

And then flushed back again, 
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun 

Transfigures the summer rain. 

And the first leaf, when she opened it, 

Sang, "I am Walter, the page. 
And the songs I sing 'neath thy window 

Are all my heritage !" 

And the second leaf sang, "But in the land 

That is neither on earth or sea. 
My harp and I are lords of more 

Than thrice this kingdom's fee !" 

And the third leaf sang, "Be mine! be mine!" 

And still it sang, "Be mine!" 
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, 

And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!" 

At the first leaf she grew pale enough, 

At the second she turned aside, 
At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed 

With a rose's red heart's tide. 
587 



LONGING. 



" Good counsel gave the bird," she said ; 

'' I have my wish thrice o'er ; 
For they sing to my very heart," she said, 

"And it sings with them evermore." 



LONGING. 

Of all the myriad moods of mind 

That through the soul come thronging, 
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful, as Longing? 
The thing we long for, that we are 

For one transcendent moment. 
Before the Present poor and bare 

Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife. 

Glows down the wished Ideal, 
And Longing moulds in clay what Life 

Carves in the marble Real ; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; — 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will. 
With our poor earthward striving ; 

We quench it that we may be still 
Content with merely living ; 

588 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

But would we learn that heart's full scope 
Which we are hourly wronging, 

Our lives must climb from hope to hope, 
And realize our longing. 

Ah ! let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways. 

But when the spirit beckons, — 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction. 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 



SUMMER. 

The little gate was reached at last. 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and as she passed 
A wistful look she backward cast, 
And said, — " Auf Wiedersehen .'" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 
Lingered, reluctant, and again 

Half doubting if she did aright; 

Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — "■Auf Wiedersehen T 
589 



PALINODE. 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah ! in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, — '^ Auf Wiedersehen T 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear '■'■ Auf Wiedersehen!" 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart, — 

She said, — " Auf WiederseJien /" 



PALINODE. 



AUTUMN. 



Still thirteen years : 'tis autumn now, 

On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 
The naked trees at evening sough, 
The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " We meet again !" 
590 



J. EUSSELL LOAYELL. 

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome 
That now is void, and dank with rain, 

And one— O, hope more frail than foam ! 

The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — "We meet again!" 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — " We meet again !" 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 

Though thou in outer dark remain; 
One sweet, sad voice ennobles death, 
And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
Softly, — "Ye meet again!" 

If earth another grave must bear. 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain 
And something whispers to despair, 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, " We meet again ! ' 



591 



MARIA LOWELL. 
THE ALPINE SHEEP. 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. 

When on my ear your loss was knelled, 

And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little spring from memory welled, 

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst, 

And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief, 
That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way. 
And on our home the shade of Death, 

Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round, with us to weep 

Her little spirit's swift remove, 
The story of the Alpine sheep 

Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care. 
Soon crop the meadows' tender prime, 

And when the sod grows brown and bare. 
The Shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain's side, 

Where grass and flowers together lean, 

And down through mist the sunbeams slide. 

592 



MARIA LOWELL. 

But nought can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try, 

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 
And seared below the pastui'es lie. 

Till in his arms his lambs he takes, 

Along the dizzy verge to go, 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 

They follow on o'er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures, lilted fair, 
More dewy-soft than lowland mead, 

The shepherd drops his tender care. 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed. 
Blew on me as the south-wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep, 

While, like the murmur of the sea. 

Sounded that voice along the deep. 
Saying, "Arise and follow me!" 



593 




READ. 

THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 

Fair dweller by the dusty way — 
Bright saint within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
AVeary and worn is thine. 
50-t 



READ. 

The earliest blossoms of tlie year, 
The sweet-brier and the violet 

The pious hand of Spring has here 
Upon thy altar set. 

And not alone to thee is given 

The homage of the pilgrim's knee- 
But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven 
Glide down and sing to thee. 

Here daily from his beechen cell 
The hermit squirrel steals to drink, 

And flocks which cluster to their bell 
Recline along thy brink. 

And here the w^aggoner blocks his wheels, 
To quaff the cool and generous boon ; 

Here, from the sultry harvest fields 
The reapers rest at noon. 

And oft the beggar marked with tan, 
In rusty garments grey with dust, 

Here sits and dips his little can. 
And breaks his scanty crust; 

And, lulled beside thy whispering stream. 
Oft drops to slumber unawares. 

And sees the angel of his dream 
Upon celestial stairs. 

Dear dweller by the dusty way, 
Thou saint within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
Weary and worn is thine! 



595 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



Within this sober realm of leafless trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued^ 
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low ; 

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint 
And like a star slow drowning in the light. 

The village church- vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew ; 

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 
Silent till some replying wanderer blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
596 



READ. 

Where erst the jay within the ehn's tall crest 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; 

And where the oriole hung her swayino- nest 
By every light wind like a censer swun«-; 

^V^lere sang the noisy masons of the eves, 

The busy swallows circling ever near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year; 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reapers of the rosy east, 

All now wtis songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreaiy gloom; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 

The sjHders wove their thin shrouds night by niglit ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air, 

And where the Avoodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread 

Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
597 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, 
Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust, 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

^Vhile yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all, 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume ; 
Ke-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew, 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow; 

Nor him, Avho to his sire and country true 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed : 
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 

And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 



598 



'■!f\^ 




^^'t./cA.'.'ci.^ ■ 



BUTLER. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

AN EPISODE OF CITY LIFE. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
Has made three separate journeys to Paris, 

And her father assures me, each time she was there, 
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris, 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, 

But phiin Mrs. H., without romance or mystery,) 

Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, 

In one continuous round of shopping ; 

Shopping alone, and shopping together. 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ; 

For all manner of things that a woman can put 

On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, 

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 

Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, 

In front or behind, above or below : 

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; 

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 

Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 

Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ; 

All of them different in colour and pattern, — 

Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin. 

Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material. 

Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, 

Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of. 

From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frill* ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store. 
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. 



The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, 
But for which the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 

600 



BUTLER. 

Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, 
Gave good-by to the ship, and go-by to the duties. 
Her relations at home all marvelled no doubt, 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry goods beside. 
Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sentry. 
Had entered the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day 
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, 
This same Miss M'FIimsey, of Madison Square, 
The last time we met, was in utter despair, 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear ! 

Nothing to wear! Now, as this is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That she's in a state of absolute nudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, 

That she had not a thing in the wide Avorld to wear! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Floras 
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 
I had just been selected as he who should throw all 
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections. 
Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"' 
And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, 
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart."' 

CO! 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

So wc were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, 

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, 

l')Ut in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted, 

Beneath the gas-tixtures Ave whispered our love. 

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 

"Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes. 

Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 

It was one of the quietest business transactions, 

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, 

And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. 

On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 

She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis. 

And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 

" You know, I'm to polka as much as I j^lease. 

And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you speak — 

And you must not come here more than twice in the week, 

Or talk to me either at party or ball, 

But always be ready to come when I call; 

So don't prose to me about duty and stuff. 

If we don't break this off, there will be time enough 

For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 

That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, 

For this is a sort of engagement, you see. 

Which is binding on you but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her. 
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contamed her, 
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 
At least in the property, and the best right 
To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 
And it being the week of the Stcckup's grand ball — 
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 
And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe — ' ' 

I considered it only my duty to call. 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her— as ladies are apt to be found, 
When the time intervening between the first sound 

602 



BUTLER. 

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 

Than usual — I found ; I won't say — I caught her — 

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 

To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 

She turned as I entered — "Why, Harry, you sinner, 

I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner !" 

"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed, 

And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend, 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckup's, whose party, you know, is to-moiTow?" 

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, 
And answered quite promptly, " Why Harry, mon cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you there ; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear." 

" Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; 

Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, 

I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon" — I stopped, for her eye, 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery. 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, 
" How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes. 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day !" 

So I ventured again — "Wear your crimson brocade," 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a shade." 

603 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

"Your blue silk" — "That's too heavy;" "Your pink" — '-That's too light. 

"Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't endure white." 

" Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch" — 

"I haven't a thread of point lace to match." 

"Your brown moir antiqtie'' — "Y''es, and look like a Quaker;" 

"The pearl-coloured" — "I would, but that plaguy dress-maker 

Has had it a week" — "Then that exquisite lilac, 

In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." 

(Here the nose took again the same elevation) 

" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 

"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it 
As more comme il faut — " " Yes, but dear me, that lean 

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; 
That superb point cVaiguille, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine'''— 
" Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed 

Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, 
\Yhen you quite turned the head of the head of the nation ; 

And by all the grand court were so very much courted." 

The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, 
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, 
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, 
"I have worn it three times at the least calculation, 

And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up!" 
Here / ripped out something, perhaps rather rash. 

Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," 

And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
"Fiddlesticks, is it, Sir? I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush you — oh, you men have no feelii^g, 
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures. 
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 

604 



BUTLER. 

Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is ! 

Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? 

I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, 

And it's pex'fectly plain you not only don't care, 

But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher). 

" I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. 

Our engagement is ended, Sir — yes, on the spot; 

You're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know what." 

I mildly suggested the words — Hottentot, 

Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, 

As gentle expletives which might give relief; 

But this only proved as spark to the powder, 

And the storm I had raised came faster and louder. 

It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed 

Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed 

To express the abusive, and then its arrears 

Wei-e brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, 

And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 

Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too. 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say; 
Then, without going through the form of a ^ow. 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — 
On door-step and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, 
At home and up stairs, in my own easy chair ; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze. 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar. 
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days. 
On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear? 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 

605 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

On tliis vital subject, and find, to my horror, 

That tlic fair Flora's case is by no means surprising. 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
AVhose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
"With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." 
Kesearches in some of the " Upper Ten" districts 
Eeveal the most painful and startling statistics, 
Of which let me mention only a few: 
In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 
Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, 
Who have been three whole weeks without any thing new 
In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch 
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 
In another large mansion near the same place 
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace. 
In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camels' -hair shawls; 
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To survive for the want of a new Eussian sable ; 
Another confined' to the house, when it's windier 
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, 
Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) 
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, 
And vail as to style most recherche and rare. 
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear. 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, 

606 



BUTLER. 

For she toijchiiigly says that this sort of grief 

Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, 

And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 

For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 

But the saddest by far of all these sad features 

Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 

By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, 

Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds 

By their waives and their daughters, and leave them for day; 

Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, 

Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance. 

And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 

One case of a bride was brought to my view, 

Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 'twas too true. 

Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 

To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. 

The consequence was, that when she got there. 

At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, 

And when she proposed to finish the season 

At Newport, the monster refused out and out. 

For his infamous conduct alleging no reason. 

Except that the waters were good for his gout ; 

Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course. 

And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain. 
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city. 
And spur up Humanity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, 
Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 
So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 
Take charge of the matter ? or won't Peter Cooper 
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- 

G07 ' 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Structure, like that which to-day links his name 

In the Union unending of honour and fame ; 

And found a new charity just for the care 

Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, 

Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, 

The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? 

Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, 

Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? 

Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 

And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses. 

Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier, 

Won't some one discover a new California ? 

Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side. 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey. 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, 
Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep gi'oans that swell 

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor. 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare — 
Spoiled children of Fashion — you've nothing to wear ! 

And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere, 
\Miere all is made right which so puzzles us here, 

608 



BUTLER. 

Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above, 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ; 
Oh, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! 




BAYAKD TAYLOK. 

DAUGHTER OF EGYPT. 

Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! 

I cannot bear their fire ; 
Nor will I touch with sacrifice 

Those altars of Desire. 
For they are flames that shun the clay, 

And their nnholy light 
Is fed from natures gone astray 

In passion and in night. 

The stars of Beauty and of Sin, 

They burn amid tlie dark. 
Like beacons that to ruin win 

The fascinated bark. 
Then veil their glow, lest I forswear 

The hopes thou canst not crown, 
And in the black waves of thy hair 

My struggling manhood drown ! 



ON THE SEA. 

The pathway of the sinking moon 

Fades from the silent bay ; 
The mountain-isles loom large and faint. 

Folded in shadows gray. 
And the lights of land are setting stars 

That soon will pass away, 
Gio 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Oh, boatman, cease thy mellow song ! 

Oh, minstrel, drop thy lyre ! 
Let us hear the voice of the midnight sea, 

Let us speak as the waves inspire. 
While the plashy dip of the languid oar 

Is a furrow of silver fire. 

Day cannot make thee half so fair, 

Nor the stars of eve so dear : 
The arms that clasp, and the breast that keeps, 

They tell me thou art near, 
And the perfect beauty of thy face 

In thy murmured words I hear. 

The lights of land have dropped below 

The vast and glimmering sea ; 
The world we leave is a tale that is told — 

A fable, that cannot be. 
There is no life in the sphery dark 

But the love in thee and me. 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand. 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
I love thee, I love but thee. 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun groios cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgmevt 
Booh unfold! 
611 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

Look from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds touch thy brow 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Booh unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old. 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 



612 




Ix that narrow Venetian street, 

On the wall above the garden-gate 
(Within, the breath of the rose is sweet, 

And the nightingale sings there, soon and late), 
613 



SAINT CHRISTOPHER. 

Staiuls Saint Christopher, carven in stone, 
With the little child in his huge caress. 

And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown 
About his gigantic tenderness; 

And over the wall a wandering growth 

Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, 
And climbs around them, and holds them both 

In its netted clasp of knots and rings, 

Clothing the saint, from foot to beard, 

In glittering leaves that whisper and dance 

To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, 
With a lusty, summer exuberance. 

To the child on his arm the faithful saint 
Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy, 

His brows and his heavy beard aslant 
Under the dimpled chin of the boy, 

Who plays Avith the world upon his palm. 

And bends his smiling looks divine 
On the face of the giant, rapt and calm, 

And the glittering frolic of the vine. 

He smiles on cither with equal grace — 
On the simple ivy's unconscious life. 

And the soul in the giant's lifted face, 
Strong from tlie peril and the strife ; 

For both are his own — the innocence 

That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven. 
And the virtue that greatly rises thence 

Tlirough trial sent and victory given. 

Grow, ivy, up to his countenance ! 

But it cannot smile on my life as on thine — 
Look, saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, 

Wliere I dare not lift these eyes of mine ! 
614 



ALDEN. 

THE ANCIENT " LADY OF SORROW." 

Her closing eyelids mock the light ; 
Her cold, pale lips are sealed quite ; 
Before her face of spotless white 

A mystic veil is drawn. 
Our Lady hides herself in night ; 
In shadows hath she her delight ; 

She will not see the dawn ! 

The morning leaps across the plain — 

It glories in a promise vain ; 

At noon the day begins to wane, 

With its sad prophecy ; 
At eve the shadows come again : 
Our Lady finds no rest from pain, 

No answer to her cry. 

In Spring she doth her Winter wait ; 
The Autumn shadoweth forth her fate ; 
Thus, one by one, years iterate 

Her mystic tragedy. 
Before her pass in solemn state 
All shapes that come, or soon or late. 

Of this world's misery. 

What is, or shall be, or hath been, 
This Lady is ; and she hath seen. 
Like frailest leaves, the tribes of men 

Come forth, and quickly die. 
Therefore our Lady hath no rest ; 
For close beneath her snow-white breast 

Her Aveary children lie. 
615 



THE AN'CIENT "LADY OF SOKUOW." 

Slio takt'tli on lier all our [?rief; 

Hit Passion passetli all relief; 

III vain slie holds tlie ii<'|)])y leaf — 

In vain her lotus crown. 
Even fabled Lethe hath no rest, 
No solace for her troubled breast, 

And no oblivion. 

"Childhood and youth are vain," she saitli, 
"Since all things ripen nnto death; 
The flower is blasted by the breath 

That called it from the earth. 
And yet," she saith, " this thing is sui-e — 
There is no life but shall endure, 

And deatli is only birth. 

"From death or birth no powers defend, 
Add thus from grade to grade we tend, 
By resurrections without end, 

Unto some final peace. 
But distant is that peace," she saith ; 
Yet eagerly awaiteth Death^ 

Expecting her release. 

" Oh Rest," she saith, " that will not come, 
Not even when our lips are dumb, 
Not even when our limbs are numb. 

And graves are growing green. 
Oh Death, that, coming on apace. 
Dost look so kindly in the face. 

Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien." 

But still slie gives the shadow place — 
Our Lady, with the saddest grace. 
Doth yield her to his feigned embrace. 

And to his treachery ! 
Ye must not draw aside her veil ; 
Ye must not hear her dying wail ; 

Ye must not see her die. 
GIG 



ALDEN. 

But, hark ! from out the stilhiess rise 
Low-murmured myths and prophecies, 
And chants that tremble to the skies 

Miserere Domine ! 
They, trembling, lose themselves in rest, 
Soothing the anguish of her breast — 

Miserere Domine ! 



617 



STODDAED. 

THE SEA. 
[the lovee.] 

You stooped and picked a wreathed shell 

Beside the shining sea — 
" This little shell, when I am gone, 

Will whisper still of me." 
I kissed }our hands, upon the sands. 

P^or you were kind to me. 

I hold the shell against my ear, 

And hear its hollow roar ; 
It speaks to me about the sea, 

But speaks of you no more. 
I pace the sands, and wring my hands, 

For vou are kind no more. 



ON THE PIER. 



Dowx at the end of the long, dark street, 

Years, years ago, 
I sat with my sweetheart on the pier. 

Watching the river flow. 
G18 



STODDARD. 

Tlie moon was climbing the sky that niglit, 
White as the winter's snow : 

We kissed in its light, and swore to be true- 
But that was years ago ! 

Once more I walk in the dark old street, 

Wearily to and fro — 
But I sit no more on the desolate pier, 

Watching the river flow. 



THE SKY IS THICK UPON THE SEA. 

The sky is thick upon the sea, 
The sea is sown with rain. 

And in the passing gusts we hear 
The clanging of the crane. 

The cranes are flying to the South; 

W^e cut the northern foam; 
The dreary land they leave behind 

Must be our future home. 

Its barren shores are long and dark, 
And gray its autumn sky; 

But better these than this gray sea, 
If but to land — and die ! 



619 




DOER 

THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. 



All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; 
All night long the stars in heav'n o'er the slain sad vigils kept. 

Oh the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night ! 
Oh the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light ! ^ 

620 



DORR. 

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke ; 
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. 

Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, 
And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay : 

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, 
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. 

But the foemen held possession of that hard-won battle-plain, 
In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. 

Once again the night dropped round them — night so holy and so calm 
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or 
psalm. 

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, 

Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. 

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep — 
Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep ; 

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face. 
And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace 

To the mai-ble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, 
Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unj^itying foes. 

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: 
How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. 

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars. 
While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. 

Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low — 
Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring 
flow? 

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round 

As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, 

Came two little maidens — sisters — with a light and hasty tread, 
And a look upon their faces half of sorrow, half of dread. 

G2l 



THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL, 

And tlicy did not pause nor falter till, Avitli throbbing hearts, they 

stood 
Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that jxartial solitude. 

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty 

store, 
And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. 

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, 
For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. 

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame 
Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame ; 

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need. 
And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. 

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task 

was o'er, 
And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. 

Then with slow and weary labour a small grave they hollowed out, 
And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. 

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done. 
And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. 

And then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — 
Laid the body of our Drummer-boy to undisturbed repose. 



622 



EOSSETTI. 

THE SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider the sea's listless chime: 
Time's self it is, made audible— 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 

Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end. Our sight may pass 
No furlong farther. Since time was, 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's— it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life, 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath, 
Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
Lost utterly, the whole sky stands, 

Gray and not known, along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea — 
Listen alone among the Avoods : 
Those voices of twin solitudes 

Shall have one sound alike to thee: 

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men 
Surge, and sink back, and surge again 

Still the one voice of Avave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach, 
And listen at its lips : they sigh 
The same desire and mystery, 

The echo of the Avhole sea's speech. 
And all mankind is thus at heart 
Not anything but what thou art ; 

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 
()23 



CHEISTINA GABRIELLA ROSSETTI. 

A BIRTHDAY. 

My heart is like a singing-bird 

Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; 
My heart is like an apple-tree 

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit ; 
My heart is like a rainbow shell 

That paddles in a halcyon sea — 
My heart is gladder than all these, 

Because my love is come to me. 

Raise me a dais of silk and down, 

Hang it with vair and purple dyes, 
Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, 

And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; 
Work it in gold and silver grapes. 

In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys. 
Because the birthday of my life 

Is come, my love is come to me. 



SING NO SAD SONGS FOR ME. 

When I am dead, my dearest, 
Sing no sad songs for me ; 

Plant thou no roses at my head, 
Nor shady cypress-tree ; 
624 



CHRLSTINA GABRIELLA ROSSETTl. 

Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dew-drops wet, 

And if thou wilt, remember 
And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the 'shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightino-ale 

Sing on, as if in pain ; 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set. 
Haply I may remember, 

And liaply may foi-get. 



62/i 



SWINBUKNE. 

BEFORE PARTING. 

A MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb 
Is pleasant ; but one tires of scented time, 
Cold, sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, 

And that strong purple under juice and foam 

Where the wine's heart has burst, 

Nor feel the latter kisses like tlie first. 

Once yet, this \wov one time ; I will not pray 
Even to change the bitterness of it — 
The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet — 

To make your tears fall Avhere your soft hair lay 

All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise 

Over my face and eyes. 

And yet, who knows what end the scythed wheat 
Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red ? 
These were not sown ; these are not harvested ; 

They grow a month, and are cast under feet. 

And none has care thereof. 

As none has care of a divided love. 

I know each shadow of your lips by rote. 

Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows ; 
The fashion of fair temples tremulous 

With tender blood, and colour of your throat : 

I know not how love is gone out of this, 

Seeing that all Avas his. 

G2G 



SWINBURNE. 

Love's likeness there endures upon all these — 
But out of these one shall not gather love. 
Day hath not strength, nor the night shade enouo-lj 

To make love whole, and fill his lips with ease, 

As some bee-builded cell 

Feels at filled Yips the honey swell. . 

I know not how this last month leaves your hair 
Less full of purple colour and hid spice, 
And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes 

Is mixed with meaner shadows and Avaste care ; 

And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet 

Worth patience to regret. 



627 



STEDMAK 

THE DOOR-STEP. 

The Conference-meeting through at last, 
We boys around the vestry waited 

To see the girls come tripping past 
Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall 

By level musket-flashes litten 
Than I, who stepped before them all 

Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no ; she blushed and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 

I can't remember what we said — 

'Twas nothing worth a song or story — 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 

Her face with youth and health was beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff" 

(Oh, sculptor, if you could but mould it !) 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff", 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
G28 



STEDMAN. 

To Lave her with me there alone — 

'Twas love, and fear, and triumph blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home ; 

Her diiupled hand the latches fino-ered- 
We heard the voices nearer come. 

Yet on the door-step still we lino-ered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 

And with a " Thank you, Js^e,]," dissembled ; 

But yet I knew she understood 

With what a daring- Avish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead, 

The moon was slyly peeping through it. 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

"Come, now or never — do it! do UP'' 

My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister, 

But somehow, full npon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, I kissed her ! 

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 

Oh listless woman, weary lover, 
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill, 

I'd give — but who can live youth over? 



Oi'*) 



"D-<UiKNESS AND TIIK SHADOW." 



" DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW." 

Wakin(J, I have been nigh to Deatli — 
Have felt the chilhiess of his breatli 
Whiten my cheek and numb my lieart, 
And wondered why he stayed liis dart — 
Yet quailed not, but could meet him so, 
.\.s any lesser friend or foe. 

But sleeping, in the dreams of night 
His phantom stifles me with fright. 
O God ! what frozen liorrors foil 
Upon me with his visioned pall — 
The movelessness, the unknown dread, 
Fair life to pulseless silence wed ! 

And is the grave so darkly deep, 
So hopeless, as it seems in sleep ? 
Can our sweet selves the coffin hold 
So dumb within its crumbling mould ? 
And is the shroud so dank and drear 
A garb — the noisome worm so near? 

Where, then, is Heaven's mercy fled, 
To quite forget the voiceless dead? 



G30 






^^' 

;^^^iil 




IIALPINE (MILES O'EEILLY). 

RESIGNED. 
Never again on the shoulder 
To see our knightly Lars ; 
Never again on the shoulder 
To see our lordly leaves; 
Never again to follow 

The flag of the Stripes and Stars ; 
Never again to dream the dream 
That martial music weaves. 
(JSi 



EESIGNEU. 

Never again call " Comrade" 

To the men who were comrades for years ; 
Never to hear the bugles, 

Thrilling, and sweet, and solemn ; 
Never again call "Brother" 

To the men we think of with tears ; 
Never again to ride or march 

In the dust of the marching column. 

Never again be a sharer 

In the chilly hour of the strife 
When, at dawn, the skirmish-i'ifles 
In opening chorus rattle ; 
Never to feel our manhood 
Kindle up into ruddy life 
'Mid the hell of scenes and noises 
In the hot hours of the battle. 

Crippled, forlorn, and useless, 

The glory of life grown dim. 
Brooding alone o'er the memory 

Of the bi-ight, glad days gone by; 
Nursing a bitter fancy. 

And nursing a shattered limb; 
Oh, comrades, resigning is harder — 
AYe know it is easy to die. 

Never again on the jacket 

To see our knightly bars ; 
Never again on the jacket 
To see our lordly leaves ; 
Never again to follow 

The flag of the Stripes and Stars ; 
Never again to dream the dream 
That young ambition weaves. 



G32 



GEOEGE ELIOT. 

DAY IS DYING. 

(from " THE SPAJStlSH GYPSY.") 

Day is dying ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 

Requiems chanting to the Day — 
Day, the mighty Giver, 

Pierced by shafts of Time, he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky, 

Earth and heaven blending ; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 

Up to cloud-land lifting ; 
Slow between them drifts the swan, 

'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open, like a flow'r 

July deeper flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying! Float, O swan, 

Down the ruby river ; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 



633 



SPRING. 



SPRING. 

(prom " TIIE SPANISH GYPSY.") 

Spring comes hither, 

Buds the rose ; 
Roses wither, 

Sweet Spring goes. 
Ojalu, would she carry me ! 

Summer soars — 
Wide-winged day 

White light pours, 
Flies away. 
Ojala, would he carry me ! 

Soft winds blow, 
West ^y ard b o vn , 

Onward go 

Toward the morn. 
Ojala, would they carry me ! 

Sweet birds sing 

O'er the graves, 
Then take wing 
O'er the waves. 
Ojala, would they carry me ! 



634 



GEORGE ELIOT. 



"IT WAS IN THE PRIME." 

(prom " THE SPANISH GYPSY.") 

It was in the i^rime 

Of the sweet Spring-time. 

In the linnet's throat 

Trembled the love-note, 
And the love-stirred air 
Thrilled the blossoms there. 

Little shadows danced — 
Each a tiny elf — 

Happy in large light 
And the thinnest sell'. 

It was bnt a minute 

In a far-olF Spring, 

But each gentle thing — 
Sweetly-wooing linnet, 

Soft-thrilled hawthorn-tree, 
Happy shadowy elf 
With the thinnest self^ — 

Live still on in me. 
O the sweet, sweet prime 
Of the past Spring-time ! 



G3r. 




BEERS. 



A DOG'S DAY ENDED. 



I AM only a dog, and I've had my day ; 
So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I lay 
In the welcome warmth of the summer smi, 
A poor old hunter whose work is done. 



Dream ? Yes, indeed ; though I am but a dog. 
Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log, 
Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight, 
Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height, 
G3G 



BEERS. 

Far away in the top of the hickory-tree, 
Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me, 
Till the hand true and steady a messenger shot. 
And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not ? 

Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then ; 
And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen, 
The hare on the common, the birds on the bough. 
Were afraid. They are safe enough now, 

For all we can harm them, old master and I. 
We have had our last hunt, the game must go by, 
While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door 
For a living. We never hunt more. 

For time, cold, and hardship have stiffened his knee ; 
And since little Lottie died, often I see 
His hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes 
For the lost baby-daughter so pretty and wise. 

Oh ! it's sad to be old, and to see the blue sky 
Look farther away to the dim fading eye ; 
To feel the fleet foot growing weary and sore 
That in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore. 

I am going — I hear the great wolf on my track ; 
Already around me his shadow falls black. 
One hunting cry more ! Oh, master ! come nigh, 
And lay the white paw in your own as I die. 

Oh come to me, master ! the last hedge is passed ; 
Our tramps in the wild wood are over at last; 
Stoop lower, and lay down my head on your knee. 
What ! tears for a useless old hunter like me ? 

You will see little Lottie again by-and-by. 
I sha'n't. They don't have any dogs in the sky. 
037 



A DOGS DAY ENDED. 

Tell lier, loving and trusty beside you I died, 
AhJ — bury me, master, not for from her side ; 

For we loved little Lottie so Avell, you and I. 
Ha, master! the shadow! fire low! it is nigh! 
There was never a sound in the still morning heard, 
But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred 

As lie flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat, 
And watched the faint life in its quivering throat 
Till it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won, 
And the death-hunted hound into cover had run. 

But long ere the snow over graves softly fell, 
Old Matthew was resting from labour as well ; 
While the cottage stood emjity, yet back from the hill 
The voice of the hound in the morn echoes still. 







638 



LAECOM. 

HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window, binding shoes. 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree : 
Spring and winter, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



Not a neighboiir 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
" Is there from the fishers any news ?" 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voj^age gone ! 
Night and morning, 
Hannah's at the Avindow, binding shoes. 



Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever. 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 
And the weaves are laughing so — 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

(539 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

May is passing: 
'Mid tlie apple boughs a pigeon coos : 

Ilannal) sliudders, 
For the miki sonthwester niisciiief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped — 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



'Tis November. 
Now no tears her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 

AVhispering hoarsely, " Fishermen, 
Have you — have you heard of Ben ?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views; 

Twenty seasons — 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea : 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 



640 



ALICE GARY. 

" THOU THAT DRAWEST ASIDE THE CURTAIN." 

(from " THE lover's DIARY.") 

Thou that drawest aside the curtain, 
Letting in the moon's broad beams, 

Give me back the sweet, th' uncertain- 
Give, O give me back my dreams. 

Take the larger light and grander, 

Piercing all things through and through; 

Give me back the misty splendour. 
Give me back the darling dew. 

Take the harvest's ripe profusions, 

Golden as the evening skies; 
Give me back my soft delusions, 

Give me back my wondering eyes. 

Take the passionless caresses 

All to waveless calm allied; 
Give me back my heart's sweet guesses, 

And my hopes unsatisfied. 

Thou that mak'st the real too real, 

O, I pray thee, get thee hence ! 
Give me back my old ideal, 

Give me back my ignorance. 



641 



"COME OUT TO THE SIDE OF THE SEA." 



"COME OUT TO THE SIDE OF THE SEA." 

(from " THE lover's DIARY.") 

Come out to the side of the sea, my love, 
Come out to the side of the sea ; 

The sun is set, and the stars are met, 
And the winds and the waves agree. 

But star so "bright, nor wave so light, 
Brings pleasure or peace to me. 

come, for I sit and wait, alone, 

On the rocks by the side of the sea. 

1 am going down in my memory 
To the blessed long ago, 

"When the golden ground of the buttercups 
Was dashed with the daisies' snow; 

And I'm thinking of all you said to me, 
And if it were true or no, 

While I watch the tide as it runs away 
From the beach so black and low. 

If I should die, my love, my sweet, 

Die of your smile forlorn, 
Bury me here by the side of the sea, 

Where all my joy was born ; 
Where the waves shall make my lullaby. 

And the winds from night till morn 
Shall say to the rocks, "He is gone to sleep 

Where all his joy was born." 



642 



PHCEBE CAEY. 

DREAMS AND REALITIES. 

O Rosamond, thou fair and good, 
And pei'fect flower of womanhood, 

Thou royal rose of June, 
Why didst thou droop before thy time ? 
Why wither in thy first sweet prime ? 

Why didst thou die so soon ? 

For, looking backward through my tears 
On thee and on my wasted years, 

I cannot choose but say, 
If thou hadst lived to be my guide, 
Or thou liadst lived and I had died, 

'Twere better far to-day. 

O child of light, O golden head — 
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 

Upon life's lonely way — 
Why didst thou vanish from our sight ? 
Could they not spare my little light 

From heaven's unclouded day ? 

O friend so true, O friend so good — 
Thou one dream of my maidenhood. 

That gave youth all its charms — 
What had I done, or Avhat hadst thou. 
That through this lonesome world till now 

We walk with empty arms ? 
643 



DREAMS AND REALITIES. 

And yet, had this poor soul been fed 
With all it loved and coveted — 

Had life been always fair- 
Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, 
That thrill Avith bliss my inmost heart, 

Forever tremble there ? 

If still they kept their earthly place, 
The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
That looks beyond the bounds of death. 

And almost longs to pass ? 

Sometimes I think the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to be ; 

That what we plan we build; 
That every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost. 

In heaven shall be fultilled ; 

That even the children of the brain 
Have not been born and died in vain. 

Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
But on some brighter, better shore 
They live, embodied evermore. 

And wait for us to come. 

And Avhen on that last day we rise. 
Caught up between the earth and skies, 

Then shall Ave hear our Lord 
Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death ; 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 

Shall be thy faith's reward. 



644 



HAY. 

MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 

There was never a castle seen 

So fair as mine in S2)ain : 
It stands, embowered in green, 
Crowning the gentle sloj^e 
Of a hill by the Xenil's shore, 
And at eve its shade flaunts o'er 

The storied Vega plain, 
And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope ; 

And I toil through years of pain 

Its glimmering gates to gain. 

In visions wild and sweet 
Sometimes its courts I greet; 

Sometimes, in joy its shining halls 
I tread with favoured feet; 
But never my eyes in the light of day 

Were blest with its ivied walls, 
Where the marble white and the'granite gray 
Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, 

When the soft day dimly falls. 

I know in its dusky rooms 

Are treasures rich and rare : 
The spoil of Eastern looms. 

And Avhatever of bright and fair 
Painters divine have caught and won 

From the vault of Italy's air: 
White gods in Phidian stone 
G45 



MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 

People the haunted glooms ; 
And the song of immortal singers 
Like a fi-agrant memory lingers, 

I know, in the echoing rooms. 

But nothing of these, my soul ! 

Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies. 
Nor the waves of the river that roll 

With a cadence faint and sweet 

In peace by its marble feet — 
Nothing of these is the goal 

For which my whole heart sighs. 
'Tis the pearl gives worth to the shell- 

The pearl I would die to gain ; 
For there does my Lady dwell. 
My love that I love so well — 

The Queen whose gracious reign 

Makes glad my Castle in Spain. 

Iler crown of golden hair 

Sheds light in the shaded places, 
And the spell of her girlish graces 

Makes glad the happy air. 

A breath of purity 

Forever before her flies. 

And ill things cease to be 

In the glance of her honest eyes. 

Around her pathway flutter. 

Where her dear feet wander free. 
In youth's pure majesty. 
The wings of the vague desires ; 

But the thought that love would utter 
In reverence exj^ires. 

Not yet ! not yet shall I see 
That face, which shines like a star 
O'er my storm-swept life afar. 

Transfigured with love for me. 
64G 



HAY. 

Toiling, forgetting, and learning, 

With labour, and vigils, and prayers, 
Pure heart and resolute will, 
At last I shall climb the hill, 

And breathe the enchanted airs 
Where the light of my life is burning, 

Most lovely, and fair, and free ; 
Where alone in her youth and beauty. 
And bound by her fate's sweet duty. 

Unconscious she waits for me. 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

A SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, 
Heard this shrill wail ring out from purgato-ry: 
" Have mercy, mighty angel ! hear my story. 

" I loved, and, blind with passionate love, I fell : 
Love brought me down to death, and death to hell : 
For God is just, and death for sin is well. 

"I do not rage against his high decree, 
Xor for myself do ask that grace shall be. 
But for my love on earth, who mourns for me. 

" Great spirit, let me see my love again. 
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain 
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 

Then said the pitying angel : " Nay, repent 
That wild vow. Look ! the dial-finger's bent 
Down to the last hour of thy punishment." 
647 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

But still she wailed : " I pray thee, let me go ; 
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so ! 
01), let me soothe him in his bitter woe !" 

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
And upward, joyous, like a rising star 
She rose, and vanished in the ether far. 

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing. 
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, 
She fluttered back with broken-hearted wailing. 

She sobbed : " I found him by the summer sea 

Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee ; 

She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me !" 

She wept: "Now let ray punishment begin: 
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 

The angel answered : " Nay, sad soul, go higher ! 
To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire !" 



648 



BEET HAETE. 

" CICELY." 
(alkam station.) 

Cicely says you're a poet ; may be ; I ain't niucli on rhyme : 
I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time. 
Poetry ! That's the way some chaps put's up an idee, 
But I takes mine " straight, without sugar," and that's what's the 
matter with me. 



Poetiy ! Just look around you — alkali, rock, and sage ; 

Sage-brush, rock, and alkali — ain't it a pretty page ? 

Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night. 

And the shadow of this yer station the on'y thing moves in sio-ht. 



Poetry ! Well, now — Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; 
Eun right away, ray pooty I By-by ! Ain't she a lamb ? 
Poetry — that reminds me o' su'thin' right in that suit ; 
Jest shet that door thar, will yer, for Cicely's ears is cute. 



Ye noticed Polly — the baby? A month afore she was born, 
Cicely — my old woman — was moody-like and forlorn ; 
Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees — 
Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman be't 



Narvous she was, and restless ; said that she " couldn't stay." 
Stay — and the nearest woman seventeen miles away ! 
But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, 
And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land. 

649 



"CICELY." 



One night— the tenth of October— I woke with a chill and fright, 
For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, 
But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she 

"couldn't stay," 
But had gone to visit her neighbor — seventeen miles away ! 



When and how she stampeded I didn't wait for to see, 
For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; 
Runnino- first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the 

scent, 
For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went. 



I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot- 
Lost on the Plains in '50, drowned almost, and shot — 
But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, 
Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. 



" Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely !" I called, and I held my breath ; 

And " Cicely !" came from the canyon — and all was as still as death ; 

And "Cicely! Cicely 1 Cicely!" came from the rocks below. 

And jest but a whisper of " Cicely !" down from them peaks of snow. 



I ain't what you call religious, but I jest looked up to the sky. 
And — this yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think I lie ; 
But up aAvay to the east'ard, yaller, and big, and far, 
I saw of a suddent rising the singlerest kind of star. 



Big, and yaller, and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me ; 
Yaller, and big, and dancing, such as you never see ; 
Big, and yaller, and dancing — I never saw such a star, 
And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then 
and thar. 

650 



BRET HAETE. 



Over the brush and boulders I stumbled and j)usbed ahead ; 
Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led ; 
It might hev been for an hour, when suddent, and peart, and nigh, 
Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's cry. 



Listen ! thar's the same music ; but her lungs, they are stronger now 
Than the day I packed her and her mother — I'm derned if I jest 

know how. 
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole thing is, 
That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this ! 



But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some day, 
Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way — 
And see what she says. And, old fellow, when you speak of the star, 

don't tell 
As how the doctor's lantern — for maybe 'twon't sound so well. 



651 



*1 




; ^^^^z 




CONANT. 



A DREAM OF FAIRIES. 



It was Summer — it was June ; 

Slept the sun in western bowers; 
Up had risen the round moon : 

Fainting with the breath of flowers, 
Hushed the air its leafy tune. 
652 



CONANT, 

Faint gray clouds upon the sky, 

Where the failing zephyx-s blew thera, 

Here and there hung, far and high ; 

And the stars were winking through them 

With a dim and sleepy eye. 

Everywhere, on every side, 

Quiet breathing, rest of Summer, 

And luxurious peace, denied 

Unto Spring, the riotous comer, 

Rashly wooing his coy bride. 

Helen, sitting on the grass, 

Just within a grove of beeches 
(Like a Fairy kingdom 'twas), 

Gazed adown the sylvan reaches, 
Where the Fairy Queen may pass. 

Mystic hollows, shadows gray, 
And a play of silvery shimmer ; 

Rock and tree-trunk, leaf and spray, 
Seemed, in that uncertain glimmer. 

Ghosts of what they were by day. 

By the great trees over-boughed, 

Flecked with shadows and moon-glances, 

Sat she, still and thoughtful-browed. 
Dreaming a whole world of fancies — 

Not a word of them aloud ! 

In the shadow of the boughs 
Thus ran on her dim-eyed fancy 

(For the goddess of sweet vows 
With the subtlest necromancy 

Every lover's brain endows) : 
653 



A DREAM OF FAIRIES. 

" Fie, ye Fairies ! So remiss ! 

Forty minutes have I waited 
For those graceful courtesies 

Done to straying folk, belated 
In old time, beneath the trees. 

"Have ye fled away from earth, 
From our mountains and our valleys, 

From the castle, from the hearth, 
From the winding forest alleys, 

Taking all your tricksy mirth? 

" Where is all the frolic crowd 

Footed meadows in times olden, 
When the air breathed not aloud. 

And the moon, full-faced and golden, 
Walked through heaven without a cloud? 

"Whereto have ye fled and gone, 
Since King Arthur's time, I wonder ? 

To the top of mountains flown ? 
To the dismal regions under, 

Where the sunlight never shone ? 

" Whereto have ye disappeared ? 

Round the planets hiding, seeking ? 
Plucking comets by the beard? 

Down yon pathway dancing, freaking. 
Where no human step is feared? 

"Wherefore have ye left our brooks, 

Glens, and groves, and meadows, friendless? 

Sigh ye not for those old nooks? 
Have ye found, in regions endless, 

Haunts with half so lovely looks? 
654 



CONANT. 

"Answer none ! Ah ! nevermore 

In the woodlands shall we view them, 

Nor on grassy meadow-floor; 
Nor by falling waters woo them 

To us, as in days of yore. 

"Nevermore, in lonely wood, 

Maids shall hear dim strains allnring, 

Strains that cannot be withstood ; 
Something that's divine assuring 

Nothing shall be met but good. 

"Could we turn earth back again, 
And those olden days recover ! 

Some high lady were I then. 

And a glorious knight my lover, 

Noblest, famousest of men ; 

"Through the wide world nobly famed 

For his gentleness and valour ; 
By the poor down-trodden claimed ; 

Wrong's dark cheek would turn to pallor 
But to hear his scutcheon named ! 

"But his noble heart would be 

Mine, though we were realms asunder ; 

And, when victory left him free. 
He would come back, to sit under 

The old oak-tree boughs with me. 

" For a castle should be ours, 

Many-towered, high-walled, deep-moated 
Ringed with groves, and lawns, and flowers ; 

Founts from marble basins spouted. 
Falling back in silvery showers. 
655 



A DREAM OF FAIRIES. 

"Underneath the old oak-trees 

With green chaplets I would crown him ; 
Do him dearer courtesies 

Than a queen could smile upon him 
For his famous victories; 

"While my noble knight would tell 
Hard adventures, wild and daring ; 

How the wizard-robber fell, 

And the flames, the midnight scaring, 

Shot up from his citadel; 

"How the potent Fairy King 
Was his Genius and his leaguer ; 

Of the wondrous Horn and Ring ; 
And the Goblet, to lips eager 

With wine gushing, like a spring ; 

"How he passed through forests old. 
Haunts of drear, mysterious dangers, 

Where the Giants have their hold. 
And the scaly Dragon-rangers 

Guard enchanted heaps of gold ; 

"How the — Hush! what strains are those? 

Some enchantment o'er me creeping?" 
Soft and slow her eyelids close — 

She droops sideways — she is sleeping, 
While the music ebbs and flows ; 

Sleeping, cheek upon her arm. 

Her unknotted hair loose straying; 

Xaught can fall to her of harm 
With the placid moonlight playing 

On her eyelids like a charm. 
656 




Lo, a thousand merry sprites, 

Their lithe bodies sparkling, flashing, 

Shower of animated lights, 

Like the crystal rain a dashing 

Wind from frosty branches smites ; 



Round about her, on the ground. 
In the silvered air above her, 
657 



A DREAM OF FAIRIES. 

To the small, sweet, tinkling sound 

Merrily skip, dance, and hover, 
Singing this fantastic round : 

"Happy and free. 
Merrily we 

Flit through the dells, 
Sleep in the cells 
Of flower-cups and bells. 
Zephyr and Moonlight 

Know where we bide, 
Hidden from noonlight, 

Snugly we hide ! 
Zephyr, Moonlight, never tell 
Where the Fairy people dwell !'^ 

Tu lohit, tu Vj'hoo / tu lohit, tu ichoo ! 

Sleep and Fairies fly together. 
From the grove glides Helen, too. 

Slowly, slowly, Avondering whether 
It was all a dream, or true. 



658 



BOKEK. 

DTRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 



Close his eyes — his work is done ; 

What to him is friend or foemaii, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him Ioav, 
In the clover or the snow; 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low. 

As man may, he fought his fight — 

Proved his truth by his endeavour; 
Lel^him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ; 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low. 

Fold him in his country's Stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ; 
What to him are all our wars — 
What but Death bemocking Folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ; 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low. 
G59 



SONNET. 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made hira. 
Mortal love weeps idly by- 
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
Li the clover or the snow; 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low. 
• 



SONNET. 



Nay, not to thee — to Nature will I tie 

The gather'd blame of every pettish mood ; 

And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood. 
Saying, " How wide its gloomy shadows lie !" 
Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye, 

Predict ere night a second fatal flood ; 

Or vow the poet's sullen solitude • 

Has changed my vision to a darksome dye. 
But when thou smil'st, I'll not look above 

To wood or sky; my hand I will not lay 
Upon the temple of my sacred love, 

To blame its living fires with base decay; 
But whisper to thee, as I nearer move, 

"Love, thou dost add another light to day." 



6(50 



WHITMAN. 

PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 

1 
^ Proud music of the storm ! 

Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies ! 
Strong hum of forest tree-tops ! wind of the mountains ! 
Personified dim shapes ! you hidden orchestras ! 
You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, 
Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations ; 
You chords left as by vast composers ! you choruses ! 
You formless, free, religious dances ! you from the Orient ! 
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts ; 
You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry ! 
Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls ! 
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless, 
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber — Why have you seiz'd me? 

2 

2 Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire ; 
Listen — lose not — it is toward thee they tend; 
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber, 
For thee they sing and dance, O Soul. 

^ A festival song ! 

The duet of the bridegroom and the bride — a marriage-march, 
With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, fill'd to the brim with love ; 
The red-flush'd cheeks, and perfumes — the cortege swarming, full of 

friendly faces, young and old, 
To flutes' clear notes, and sounding harps' cantabile. 

G61 



PKOUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 

3 

■» Now loud approaching drums ! 

Victoria! see'st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn, but flying? 

the rout of the baffled ? 
Hearest those shouts of a conquering army ? 

^ (Ah, Soul, the sobs of women— the wounded groaning in agony, 
The hiss and crackle of flames — the blacken'd ruins — the embers of 

cities. 
The dirge and desolation of mankind.) 



^ Now airs antique and medieval fill me ; 

I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festivals ; 

I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love ; 

I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages. 



' Now the great organ sounds, 

Tremulous — while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth. 

On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend, 

All shapes of beauty, grace, and strength — all hues we know. 

Green blades of grass, and warbling birds — children that gambol 

and play — the clouds of heaven above,) 
The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not. 
Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest — maternity of all the rest ; 
And with it every instrument in multitudes. 
The players playing — all the world's musicians, 
Tlie solemn hymns and masses, rousing adoration. 
All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals. 
The measureless sweet vocalists of ages ; 
And for their solvent setting, Earth's own diapason, 
Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves ; 
A new composite orchestra — binder of years and climes — ten-fold 

renewer, 
As of the far-back days the poets tell— the Paradiso, 

662 



WHITMAN. 

The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done. 
The journey done, the Journeyman come home, 
And Man and Art, with Nature fused again. 

6 
8 Tutti ! for Earth and Heaven ! 
The Almighty Leader now for me, for once, has signal'd with his wand. 

^ The manly strophe of the husbands of the world, 
And all the wives responding. 

'" The tongues of violins ! 

(I think, O tongues, ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself; 

This brooding, yearning heart, that cannot tell itself) 

V 
" Ah, from a little child. 

Thou knowest. Soul, how to me all sounds became music ; 
My mother's voice, in lullaby or hymn ; 
(The voice — tender voices — memory's loving voices ! 
Last miracle of all — dearest mother's, sister's, voices ;) 
The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leav'd corn, 
The measur'd sea-surf, beating on the sand. 
The twittering bird, the hawk's sharp scream, 
The Avild- fowl's notes at night, as flying low, migrating north or 

south, 
The psalm in the country church, or, mid the clustering trees, the 

open air camp-meeting. 
The fiddler in the tavern^the glee, the long-strung sailor-song. 
The lowing cattle, bleating sheep — the crowing cock at daAvn. 



'2 All songs of current lands come sounding 'round me. 
The German airs of friendship, wine and love, 
Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances — English warbles, 
Chansons of France, Scotch tunes — and o'er the rest, 
Italia's peerless compositions. 

6G3 



PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 

'3 Across the stage, with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion, 
Stalks Korma, brandishing the dagger in her hand. 

I* I see poor crazed Lucia's eyes' unnatural gleam ; 
Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevell'd. 

'5 1 see where Ernani, walking the bridal garden, 

Amid the scent of night - roses, radiant, holding his bride by the 

hand. 
Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn. 

'6 To crossing swords, and grey hairs bared to heaven, 
The clear, electric base and baritone of the world. 
The trombone duo — Libertad forever ! 

" From Spanish chestnut-trees' dense shade, 

By old and heavy convent walls, a wailing song, 

Song of lost love — the torch of youth and life quench'd in despair, 

Song of the dying swan — Fernando's heart is breaking. 

^^ Awaking from her woes at last, retriev'd Amina sings ; 

Copious as stars, and glad as morning light, the torrents of her joy. 

'^ (The teeming lady comes ! 

The lustrious orb — Venus contralto — the blooming mother, 

Sister of loftiest gods— Alboni's self I hear.) 

9 
20 1 hear those odes, symphonies, operas ; , 

I hear in the William Tell the music of an arous'd and angry people ; 
1 hear Meyerbeer's Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert; 
Gounod's Faust, or Mozart's Don Juan. 

10 
21 1 hear the dance-7nusic of all nations. 

The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss ;) 
The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets. 

GG-t 



WHITMAN. 

22 I see religious dances, old and new ; 
I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre ; 

I see the Crusaders marching, bearing the Cross on high, to the 

clang of cymbals ; 
I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers'd with frantic 

shouts, as they spin around, turning always towards Mecca ; 
I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs ; 
Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing, 
I hear them clapping their hands, as they bend their bodies, 
I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet, 

23 I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performei'S 

wounding each other ; 
I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throwing 

and catching their weapons, 
As they fall on their knees, and rise again. 

2* I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling ; 

I see the worshippers within, (nor form, nor sermon, argument, nor word, 

But silent, strange, devout — rais'd, glowing heads — ecstatic faces.) 

11 

25 I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings. 
The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen ; 
The sacred imperial hymns of China, 

To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone ;) 
Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina, 
A band of bayadei-es. 

12 

26 Now Asia, Africa leave me — Europe, seizing, inflates me ; 

To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices, 

Luther's strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist miser Gott / 

Rossini's Stahat Mater dolorosa ; 

Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous color'd 

windows, 
The passionate Agnus Dei^ or Gloria in ExceUis. 

665 



PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 



13 



2" Composers ! mighty Maestros ! 

And you, sweet singers of old lands — Soprani ! Tenori ! Bassi ! 

To you a new bard, carolling free in the West, 

Obeisant, sends his love. 

28 (Such led to thee, O Soul ! 

All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee, 

But now, it seems to me, sound leads o'er all the rest.) 

14 

•^ I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's Cathedral ; 
Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, ora- 
torios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn ; 
The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me. 

3° Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,) 

Fill me with all the voices of the universe, 

Endow me with their throbbings — Nature's also, 

The tempests, waters, winds — operas and chants — marches and dances. 

Utter — pour in — for I would take them all. 

15 
3> Then I Avoke softly. 

And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream, 
And questioning all those reminiscences — the tempest in its fury. 
And all the songs of sopranos and tenors. 
And those rapt Oriental dances, of religious fervor, 
And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs. 
And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death, 
I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber- 
chamber. 
Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long, 
Let us go forth refresh'd amid the day. 
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real, 
Nourish'd henceforth by our celestial dream. 

r.CG 



WHITMAN. 

22 And I said, moreover, 

Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds, 

Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk's flapping wings, nor harsh 

scream, . 
Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy, 
Nor German organ majestic — nor vast conpourse of voices — nor 

layers of harmonies ; 
Nor strophes of husbands and wives — nor sound of marching soldiers, 
Nor flutes, nor harps, nor bugle-calls of camps ; 
But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee, 
Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in 

night air, uncaught, unwritten. 
Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write. 



667 




^^_^7~: 



KETCHUM. 



DOLORES. 



In beauty fairei* far 
Than the divinest dream of him who drew 
The stately Eos guiding up the blue 

Her gemmed and golden car, 

6G8 



KETCHUM. 

From, the dusk realm of night 
Comes forth the radiant morning, brushing back 
The clouds like blossoms from her rosy track 

With diamond dews bedight. 

The priestly mocking-bird 
Wakens the grossbeak Avith his early hymn, 
And down the slopes, and through the woodlands dim, 

Sweet, holy sounds are heard. 

Her gold-enamelled bells 
The tall campanula rings ; 'mid daisies white 
The lithe, slim phalaris* flaunts his pennons bright 

O'er all the grassy swells. 

The benzoin's breath divine 
Spices the air ; the jasmine censers swing ; 
Among the ferns beside the darkling spring 

The mailed nasturtions shine. 



The brown bees come and go ; 
His cheerful tune the lonely cricket sings ; 
While the quick dragon-fly, on lightning wings, 

Darts flashing to and fro. 

Pomegranates, golden-brown. 
Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind ; 
And ghostly witches'-featherf on the wind 

Comes slowly riding down. 



* The ribbon-grass of Southern Texas (Phalaris Americanci) is remark 
able for its splendid colours. 

t The winged seeds of a species of thistle. 

669 



DOLORES. 



The gray cicada sings 
Drowsily amid th' acacia's feathery leaves ; 
Around her web the caterpillar weaves 

The last white silken rings. 



October silently 
His pleasant work fulfils Avith busy hands, 
While, cheering him, floats o'er the shining sands 

The murmur of the sea. 



Deep in the shady dell 
The cowherd, whistling at his own rude will, 
Lists, with bared head, as from the distant hill 

Rings out St. Michael's bell, 

Calling, with warning lips. 
Matron and maid, albeit the south winds blow. 
To climb the height, and pray for them that go 

Down to the sea in ships. 

The fishers in the boats. 
Mending their nets with murmurous song and noise, 
Stop sudden, as Dolores' silver voice 

From the gray chapel floats. 

They think how, o'er the bay. 
The sailor bridegroom, from her white arms torn, 
Sailed in the haze and gold of Michaelmas morn — 

One year ago to-day. 

Then, rocking with the tide. 
They reckon up the news of yesterday, 
And count what time to-day Avithin the bay 

The home-bound ship may ride. 
670 



KETCHUM, 

Dreaming, the long night hours, 
Of white sails coming o'er the tossing deep, 
At dawn this morning from her strange, glad slee}) 

She rose to gather flowers, 

Cups honeyed to the brim. 
And fruits, and brilliant grasses, and the stems 
Of myrtles, with their waxen diadems, 

To ofier unto him. 

Beside the chapel porch, ' 
The Gloria ended, lingering now, she turns 
To look, as on the brightening spire-cross burns 

The morning's golden torch ; 

Then sees, with sober glee, 
The SAvift prophetic sea-gulls flying south. 
Far out beyond the landlocked harbour's mouth, 

Into the open sea. 

" Steady, thou freshening breeze," 
Her dark eyes say, as o'er the sparkling main 
She gazes ; " steady, till thou bring again 

The ship from distant seas ; 

" So, ere his golden wine 
The setting sun adown the valley pour, 
Dear eyes may watch with me, beside the door, 

The autumn day decline." 

O breeze ! O sea-birds white ! 
Ye may not bring her from that rocky coast — 
The stranded ship — nor wrest the tempest-tossed 

From the black billow's might ; 
671 



DOLORES. 



But when she wearily 
Shall pray for comfort, of that country tell 
Where all the lost are crowned with asphodel, 

And there is no more sea. 




672 



LEMON. 

OLD TIME AND I. 

Old Time and I the other night 

Had a carouse together ; 
The wine was golden, warm, and bright — 

Ay ! just like summer weather. 
Quoth I, "There's Christmas come again, 

And I no farthing richer ;" 
Time answered, "Ah ! the old, old strain — 

I prithee pass the pitcher, 

"Why measure all your good in gold? 

No rope of sand is weaker ; 
'Tis hard to get, 'tis hard to hold — 

Come, lad, fill up your beaker. 
Hast thou not found true friends more true, 

And loving ones more loving ?" 
I could but say, "A few — a few ; 

So keep the liquor moving," 

"Hast thou not seen the prosp'rous knave 

Come down a precious thumper? 
His cheats disclosed?" "I have — I have!" 

" Well, surely that's a bumper." 
"Nay, hold a while; I've seen the just 

Find all their hopes grow dimmer," 
"They will hope on, and strive, and trust. 

And conquer !" " That's a brimmer." 
673 



OLD TIME AND I. 

" 'Tis not because to-day is dark, 

No brighter day's before 'em ; 
There's rest for every storm-toss'd bark." 

" So be it ! Pass the jorum. !" 
"Yet I must own 1 should not mind 

To be a little richer." 
"Labour and wait, and you may find — - 

Hallo ! an empty pitcher." 



THE END. 



674 



